THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Commodore  Byron  v'cCandless 


HELEN   HUNT  JACKSON. 


EVENINGS  WITH 

COLORADO  POETS, 


A  COMPILATION  OF 

SELECTIONS  FROM  COLORADO  POETS 
AND  VERSE-WRITERS. 


COMPILED  AND  EDITED  BY 

FRANCIS  S.  KINDER,  AND 
F.  CLARENCE  SPENCER. 


DENVER,  COLO.: 

THE  CHAIN  &  HARDY  CO. 

1894. 


COPYRIGHTED,   1N!'4, 
BY  F.   S.   KINT1ER    AN!)  F.   C.   5PKNCKK. 


B 


TO 

Our  friend  and   former  Instructor, 
MARY   RIPPON, 

crowning  pleasure  in   the  compilation  of  this   book   is   the 
privilege- of  dedicating  it  to  you  ;  and  this  token  of  personal 
esteem  is  not  without  special  fitness,  since  to  you  we  owe  much  of  our 
love  of  the    beautiful— a   chief  inspiration   to    the    labors    of    our 
undertaking. 


957400 


CONTENTS. 


CHARLOTTE  BALLARD. 

ANONYMOUS. 

OLNEY  NEWELL. 

GEORGE  S.  PHELPS. 

FREDRICK  KRAMER. 

ANONYMOUS. 

T.  J.  SIPPLE. 

H.  B.  STEPHENS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ANONYMOUS. 

J.    D.    DlLLENBACK. 

OLIVER  HOWARD. 
L.  W.  CANADY. 
Ross  DEFORRIS. 


"Little  Goo." 
Rio  de  las  Animas  Perditas. 

Sonnet. 
Palmer  Lake. 

Claudian. 

Introspection. 

In  Retrospect. 

Fate  or  God. 

Eventide. 

Nobody  Knows. 

Colorado. 

The  Bachelor's  Lament. 

The  First  Funeral  at  Nuggetsville. 

Reverend  John. 

Biographical  Notes. 


Great  Divide. 


Common-wealth. 


Great  Divide. 
Common-wealth . 


107 
208 
210 
212 
214 
214 
216 
218 
219 
220 
221 
222 
223 
214 

227 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON 

VIRGINIA  DONAGHE  MC€LURG 

J.  ERNEST  WHITNEY 

CY  WARMAN 

ROBERT  M.C!NTYRE 

HARRIET  LANCASTER  WESTCOTT 

THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL 

DAVID  BOYD 

EMMA  GHENT  CURTIS 

ALICE  POLK  HILL 

SURVILLE  J.  DE  LAN 

ETHELYN  ALICE  STODDARD 

WILLIAM  L.  BURDICK 

FRANK  GRAIN  SCHOFIELD 


Frontispiece. 
16 
24 
50 
72 
96 
112 
128 
144 
152 

-  160 
176 

-  188 
204 


preface. 


Tne  dfsign  of  this  work  is  to  afford  the  reader  a  general  view  of 
•Colorado's  contributions  to  poetical  literature,  as  well  as  to  present  in 
one  volume  such  productions  of  our  poets  as  are  especially  worthy  of 
preservation.  We  have  aimed  to  include  selections  as  widely  representa 
tive  as  a  reasonable  standard  of  excellence  would  permit;  to  quote  so 
much  from  our  best  authors  as  would  give  the  reader  a  comprehensive 
view  of  their  attainments  in  poetry,  and  to  do  this,  so  far  as  possible, 
without  note  of  comment,  leaving  to  others  the  field  of  criticism. 

It  was  believed  that  such  a  work  would  have  interest  for  Colorado 
lovers  of  literature,  outside  the  circle  of  friends  each  author  represented, 
and  that  in  view  of  the  large' number  of  excellent  verse- writers  of  our 
state,  selections  of  poems  could  be  made  having  sufficient  Hterary  value 
to  commend  the  volume  to  the  attention  of  careful  readers. 

tf  our  design  has  been  skillfully  executed,  the  work  should  have  some 
additional  value  from  the  nature  of  the  enterprise  itself.  If  much  can  be 
said  in  favor  of  compilations  from  well  known  authors,  whose  works  are 
to  be  found  in  every  public  library,  certainly  a  service  worthy  of  the  labor 
is  rendered  in  gathering  and  preserving  what  is  worthy  of  preservation 
from  writers  who  would  otherwise  be  lost  from  public  view. 

The  general  reader  in  Colorado  who  turns  from  the  news  matter  of 
the  daily  press  to  seek  out  such  literature  as  reflects  the  more  refined  part 
of  the  intellectual  and  emotional  life  of  our  people,  will  be  surprised  at 
the  large  number  of  excellent  verse-writers  of  the  state.  Doubtless  the 
atmosphere  of  freedom  peculiar  to  western  life,  and  which  belongs 
especially  to  the  mining  camp,  has  lent  its  share  of  inspiration  to  writers. 
Perhaps  the  exceptional  grandeur  of  our  highland  scenery  has  done  much 
to  awaken  the  poetic  instinct  which  exists  partly  dormant  in  nearly  all 
human  hearts.'  But  added  to  these  things  is  the  fact  that  our  population 
includes  many  persons  whose  active  intellects  and  refined  natures  have 

VII 


PREFACE. 

been  united,  as  such  natures  usually  are.  with  a  delicate  constitution,  and 
who  have  been  led  by  ill  health  to  seek  the  new  life  offered  in  Colorado's- 
invigorating  climate.  It  was  for  the  reason  just  named  that  this  state 
became  the  home  of  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  J.  Ernest  Whitney,  Mrs. 
McClurg,  Miss  Paden,  Prof.  Haskell  and  other  poets  less  widely  knownr 
yet  worthy  of  being  remembered,  and  whose  writings  it  is  the  special  mis 
sion  of  this  little  volume  to  help  preserve. 

In  a  work  dealing  with  poets  of  the  state  in  general,  it  will  not  be  out 
of  place  to  notice  the  number  of  books  in  verse  which  have  been  published 
by  Colorado  authors.  Aside  from  the  works  of  Mrs.  Jackson,  Mrs. 
McClurg  and  Mr.  Field,  which  already  are  familiar  to  most  readers,  the 
others  may  be  named  as  follows :  ' '  King  Sham  and  Other  Atrocities  in 
Verse,"  1868.  Lawrence  N.  Greenleaf ;  ''Black  Mammy  and  Other  Poems," 
1885,  Will  L.  Visscher;  "Poems,"  1885,  Jessie  A.  Cole;  "Immortalles,'r 
1887,  Cora  M.  A.  Davis;  "Letters  from  Colorado,"  1887,  H.  L.  Wason; 
"Star  Dust,"  1888,  Fannie  Isabel  Sherrick;  "Crude  Ore  from  the  Rocky 
Mountains,"  1889,  8.  J.  De  Lan;  "Young  Konkaput,  King  of  the  Utes" 
and  "Occasional  Poems,"  1889,  Thomas  Nelson  Haskell:  "The  Cowboy 
Po8,"  1890,  "Sam"  Brown;  "Pictures  and  Poems  of  the  Pike's  Peak 
Region,"  1891,  J.  Ernest  Whitney:  "  Women  of  the  Bible."  1892,  Thomas 
Nelson  Haskell ;  "  Sweet  Summer  Land,"  1892,  Florence  Watson ;  "Dixie 
Poems,"  1893,  Orie  Bower;  "Mountain  Melodies,"  189-,  Cy  Warman. 
The  list  is  probably  incomplete  aside  from  its  ommission  of  dramas  and 
numerous  poems  published  singly  in  pamphlet  form. 

In  our  undertaking  we  have  had  the  kind  assistance  of  many  of  our 
poets  in  furnishing,  or  directing  us  to  their  writings.  The  books  of  Colorado 
poetry,  already  referred  to,  have  been  examined:  literary  journals  and 
magazines,  local  and  national,  have  been  scanned,  and  the  arduous  work 
of  searching  through  the  files  of  the  daily  papers  was  not  slighted  as  being 
useless.  The  mass  of  material  to  be  passed  upon  was  very  great ;  but  we 
believe  no  poetical  writer  of  special  merit  has  been  overlooked. 

As  the  work  progressed  it  became  evident  that  some  biographical 
notice  of  the  more  prominent  poets  would  be  a  desirable  addition  to  the 

VIII 


PREFACE. 

volume.  Accordingly  there  were  prepared  short  sketches  of  all,  excepting 
those  included  in  the  division  of  Miscellaneous  and  Anonymous  Poems. 
These  sketches  will  be  found  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 

We  take  pleasure  in  acknowledging  obligations  to  those  of  our  poets 
who  have  cheerfully  granted  us  the  free  use  of  their  copyrighted  works, 
and  to  all  others  for  assistance  and  the  good  natured  acceptance  of  our 
judgment  and  reliance  on  our  fairness;  also  to  many  kind  friends  out 
side  the  group  of  authors,  for  favors  in  connection  with  the  enterprise. 

To  Messrs.  Roberts  Bros.,  of  Boston,  for  permission  to  use  selections 
from  Mrs.  Jackson's  works;  to  the  publishers  of  the  Century  Magazine  tor 
the  use  of  two  of  Mrs.  McClurg's  sonnets  and  Mr.  Whitney's  beautiful 
chant  royal,  '%The  Glory  of  the  Year;"  to  LippincoW  s  Magazine  for 
poems  of  Miss  Paden ;  to  the  Cosmopolitan  for  those  of  Mrs.  McClurg  and 
Mr.  Allen,  quoted  from  that  magazine,  our  sincere  thanks  are  due ;  also 
to  Mr.  H.  W.  Comstock,  founder  of  the  Commonwealth  ;  to  Mr.  S.  K.  Hooper, 
publisher  of  "  Rhymes  of  the  Rockies."  and  to  the  Great  Divide,  for  the 
privilege  of  many  selections.  We  are  indebted  to  Mr.  F.  S.  Thayer  for 
the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Jackson,  and  also  to  McClure's  Magazine  for  that 
of  Mr.  Warman.  We  have  aimed  to  give  proper  credit  in  our  table 
of  contents,  for  all  copyrighted  matter,  and  if  this  has  not  been  done  in 
any  case,  it  has  been  through  oversight  or  failure  to  discover  the  rightful 
proprietor. 

Having  referred  to  so  many  who  have  lent  aid,  it  is  only  fair  to  exon 
erate  them  from  all  responsibility  for  the  errors  which  doubtless,  in  spite 
of  the  greatest  care,  have  crept  in.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  believe,  notwith 
standing  our  own  shortcomings,  that  the  charm  of  so  many  of  the  poems 
will  endear  the  volume  to  a  large  number  of  readers.  As  citizens  cherish 
ing  a  certain  state  pride,  we  may  express  the  hope  that  the  work  will  help 
toward  a  fuller  appreciation  of  the  literary  attainments  of  our  people. 

FRANCIS  S.  KINDER, 
F.  CLARENCE  SPENCER. 


IX 


Evening  with  Colombo  (poets 


Ibelcn  1bunt 


RETURN  TO  THE  HILLS. 

Like  a  music  of  triumph  and  joy 

Sounds  the  roll  of  the  wheels, 
And  the  breath  of  the  engine  laughs  out 

In  loud  chuckles  and  peals, 
Like  the  laugh  of  a  man  that  is  glad 

Coming  homeward  at  night; 
I  lean  out  of  the  window  and  nod 

To  the  left  and  the  right, 
To  my  friends  in  the  fields  and  the  woods; 

Not  a  face  do  I  miss; 
The  sweet  asters  and  browned  golden-rod, 

And  that  stray  clematis, 
Of  all  vagabonds  dearest  and  best, 

In  most  seedy  estate; 
I  am  sure  they  all  recognize  me; 

If   I   only    coxild   wait, 
I  should  hear  all  the  welcome  which  now 

In  their  faces  I  read, 
"O  true  lover  of  us  and  our  kin, 

We  all  bid  thee  God  speed  !" 

O  my  mountains,  no  wisdom  can  teach 

Me  to  think  that  ye  care 
Nothing  more  for  my  steps  than  the  rest; 

Or  that  they  can  have  share 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Such  as  mine  in  your  royal  crown-lands, 

Unencumbered  of  fee; 
In  your  temples  with  altars  unhewn, 

Where  redemption  is  free; 
In  your  houses  of  treasure,  which  gold 

Cannot  buy  if  it  seeks; 
And  your  oracles,  mystic  with  words, 

Which  men  lose  if  they  speak  ! 

Ah  !     with  boldness  of  lovers  who  wed 

I  make  haste  to  your  feet, 
And  as  constant  as  lovers  who  die, 

My  surrender  repeat; 
And  1  take  as  the  right  of  my  love, 

And  I  keep  as  its  sign, 
An  ineffable  joy  in  each  sense 

And  new  strength  as  from  wine, 
A  seal  for  all  purpose  and  hope, 

And  a  pledge  of  full  light, 
Like  a  pillar  of  cloud  for  my  day. 

And  of  fire  for  my  night. 


BEST. 

Mother,  I  see  you,  with  your  nursery  light, 
Leading  your  babies,  all  in  white, 

To   their   sweet   rest; 
Christ,  the  Good  Shepherd,  carries  mine  to-night, 

And  that  is  best. 


HELEN  HUNT  JA  CKSON. 

I  can  not  help  tears,  when  I  see  them  twine 
Their  fingers  in  yours,  and  their  bright  curls  shine 

On  your  warm   breast; 
But  the  Savior's  is  purer  than  yours  or  mine, 

He  can  love  best  ! 


You  tremble  each  hour  because  your  arms 
Are  weak;   your  heart  is  wrung  with  alarms 

And  sore  opprest; 
My  darlings  are  safe,  out  of  reach  of  harms, 

And  that  is  best. 


You  know,  over  yours  may  hang  even  now 
Pain  and  disease,  whose  fulfilling  slow 

Naught  can  arrest; 
Mine  in  God's  gardens  run  to  and  fro, 

And  that  is  best. 


You  know  that  of  yours,  your  feeblest  one 
And  dearest  may  live  long  years  alone, 

Unloved,   unblest; 
Mine  are  cherished  of  saints  around  God's  throne, 

And  that  is  best. 


You  must  dread  for  yours  the  crime  that  sears. 
Dark  guilt  unwashed  by  repentant  tears, 

And    un confessed; 
Mine  entered  spotless  on  eternal  years, 

O,  how  much  the  best ! 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

But  grief  is  selfish;    I  cannot  see 
Always  why  I  should  so  stricken  be, 

More  than  the  rest: 
But  I  know  that,  as  well  as  for  them,  for  me 

God  did  the  best ! 


"NOT   AS    I    WILL." 

Blindfolded  and  alone  I  stand 
With  unknown  thresholds  on  each  hand; 
The  darkness  deepens  as  1  grope, 
Afraid  to  fear,  afraid  to  hope; 
Yet  this  one  thing  I  learn  to  know 
Each  day  more  surely  as  I  go, 
That  doors  are  opened,  ways  are  made, 
Burdens  are  lifted  or  are  laid, 
By  some  great  law  unseen  and  still, 
Unfathomed  purpose  to  fulfill. 
"Not  as  I  will." 

Blindfolded  and  alone  I  wait; 
Loss  seems  too  bitter,  gain  too  late; 
Too   heavy   burdens   in  the  load 
And  too  few  helpers  on  the  road; 
And  joy  is  weak  and  grief  is  strong. 
And  years  and  days  so  long,  so  long. 
Yet  this  one  thing  I  learn  to  know 
Each  day  more  surely  as  I  go, 
That  I  am  glad  the  good  and  ill 
By  changeless  law  are  ordered  still. 
"Not  as  I  will." 


HELEN  HUNT  JA  CKSON. 

"Not  as  I  will:"    the  sound  grows  sweet 
Each  time  my  lips  the  words  repeat. 
''Not  as  I  will:"    the  darkness  feels 
More  safe  than  light  when  this  thought  steals 
Like  whispered  voice  to  calm  and  bless 
All  unrest  and  all  loneliness. 
"Not  as  I  will,"  because  the  One 
Who  loved  us  first  and  best  has  gone 
Before  us  on  the  road,  and  still 
For  us  must  all  his  love  fulfil, 
"Not  as  I  will." 


THOUGHT. 


0  messenger,  art  thou  the  king,  or  I? 
Thou  dalliest  outside  the  palace  gate 
Till  on  thine  idle  armor  lie  the  the  late 

And  heavy   dews:    the  morn's   bright,    scornful  eye 

Reminds  thee;  then,  in  subtle  mockery, 

Thou  smilest  at  the  window  where  I  wait, 

Who  bade  thee  ride  for  life.     In  empty  state 

My  days  go  on,  while  false  hours  prophesy 

Thy  quick  return;   at  last,  in  sad  despair, 

1  cease  to  bid  thee,  leave  thee  free  as  air; 
When  lp,  thou  stand'st  before  me  glad  and  fleet, 
And  lay'st  undreamed-of  treasures  at  my  feet 
Ah  !    messenger,  thy  royal  blood  to  buy, 

I  am  too  poor.     Thou  art  the  king,  not  I. 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


MY   STRAWBERRY. 

0  marvel,  fruit  of  fruits,  I  pause 
To  reckon  thee.  I  ask  what  cause 
Set  free  so  much  of  red  from  heats 

At  core  of  earth,  and  mixed  such  sweets 
With  sour  and  spice;    what  was  that  strength 
Which  out  of  darkness,  length  by  length, 
Spun  all  thy  shining  thread  of  vine, 
Netting  the  fields  in  bond  as  thine. 

1  see  thy  tendrils  drink  by  sips 
From  grass  and  clover's  smiling  lips; 
I  hear  thy  roots  dig  down  for  wells, 
Tapping  the  meadow's  hidden  cells; 
Whole  generations  of  green  things, 
Descended  from  long  lines  of  springs, 
I  see  make  room  for  thee  to  bide 

A  quiet  comrade  by  their  side: 
I  see  the  creeping  peoples  go 
iuysterious  journeys  to  and  fro, 
Treading  to  right  and  left  of  thee, 
Doing  thee  homage  wouderingly. 
I  see  the  wild  bees,  as  they  fare, 
Thy  cups  of  honey  drink,  but  spare. 
I  mark  thee  bathe  and  bathe  again 
In  sweet  uncalendared  spring  rain. 
I  watch  how  all  May  has  of  sun 
Makes  haste  to  have  thy  ripeness  done, 
While  all  her  nights  let  dews  escape 
To  set  and  cool  thy  perfect  shape. 

8 


HELEN  HUNT  JA  CKSON. 

Ah,  fruit  of  fruits,  no  more  1  pause 
To  dream  and  seek  thy  hidden  laws  ! 
I  stretch  my  hand  and  dare  to  taste, 
In  instant  of  delicious  waste 
On  single  feast,  all  things  that  went 
To  make  the  empire  thou  hast  spent. 


LAST  WOKDS. 

Dear  hearts,  whose  love  has  been  so  sweet  to  know, 

That  I  am  looking  backward  as  I  go, 

Ain  lingering  while  I  haste,  and  in  this  rain 

Of  tears  of  joy  am  mingling  tears  of  pain; 

Do  not  adorn  with  costly  shrub,  or  tree, 

Or  flower,  the  little  grave  which  shelters  me. 

Let  the  wild  wind -sown  seeds  grow  up  unharmed, 

And  back  and  forth  all  summer,  unalarmed, 

Let  all  the  tiny,  busy  creatures  creep; 

Let  the  sweet  grass  its  last  year's  tangles  keep; 

And  when,  remembering  me,  you  come  some  day 

And  stand  there,  speak  no  praise,  but  only  say, 

"How  she  loved  us  !  'Twas  that  which  made  her  dear!' 

Those  are  the  words  that  I  shall  joy  to  hear. 


HABEAS    CORPUS. 

My  body,  eh?    Friend  Death,  how  now? 

Why  all  this  tedious  pomp  of  writ? 
Thou  hast  reclaimed  it  sure  and  slow 

For  half  a  century  bit  by  bit. 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

In  faith  thou  knowest  more  to-day 
Than  I  do,  where  it  can  be  found  ! 

This  shrivelled  lump  of  suffering  clay, 
To  which  I  now  ain  chained  and  bound, 

Has  not  of  kith  or  kin  a  trace 

To  the  good  body  once  I  bore; 
Look  at  this  shrunken,  ghastly  face: 

Didst  ever  see  that  face  before? 

Ah,  well,  friend  Death,  good  friend  thou  art; 

Thy  only  fault  thy  lagging  gait, 
Mistaken  pity  in  thy  heart 

For  timorous  ones  that  bid  thee  wait. 

Do  quickly  all  thou  hast  to  do., 
Nor  I  nor  mine  will  hindrance  make; 

I  shall  be  free  when  thou  are  through; 
I  grudge  thee  nought  that  thou  must  take  ! 

Stay  !    I  have  lied;    I  grudge  thee  one, 

Yes,   two  I   grudge   thee  at  this  last- 
Two  members  which  have  faithful  done 
My  will  and  bidding  in  the  past. 

I  grudge  thee  this  right  hand  of  mine; 

I  grudge  thee  this  quick-beating  heart; 
They  never  gave  me  coward  sign. 

Nor  played  me  once  a  traitor's  part. 

I  see  now  why  in  olden  days 

Men  in  barbaric  love  or  hate 
Nailed  enemies'  hands  at  wild  crossways, 

Shrined  leaders'  hearts  in  costly  state. 

10 


HELEN  HUNT  JA  CKSON. 

The  symbol,  sign  and  instrument 
Of  each  soul's  purpose,  passion,  strife, 

Of  fires  in  which  are  poured  and  spent 
Their  all  of  love,  their  all  of  life. 

O  feeble,  mighty  human  hand  ! 

0  fragile,  dauntless  human  heart  ! 
The  universe  holds  nothing  planned 

With  such  sublime,  transcendent  art  ! 

Yes,  Death,  I  own  I  grudge  thee  mine- 
Poor  little  hand,  so  feeble  now; 

Its  wrinkled  palm,  its  altered  line, 
Its  veins  so  pallid  and  so'  slow — 

*      *      *      *      (Unfinished  here.} 

Ah,  well,  friend  Death,  good  friend  thou  art; 

1  shall  be  free  when  thou  are  through. 
Take  all  there  is— take  hand  and  heart; 

There  must  be  somewhere  work  to  do. 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


Dircjtnia  Donagbe 


COLORADO. 

0  "Colored   Land  !"    beneath  a  turquoise  sky, — 
Sun-kissed  from  dazzling  peaks  to  opal  plains, — 
What  pulses  throb  within  thy  silver  veins, 
What  forces  strove  in  thee  for  mastery  ! 
The  Manitou  here  dwelt  in  days  gone  by 
In  crystal  springs,  to  cleanse  all  mortal  stains; 
Here  the  swart  Spaniard  strove  for  golden  gains; 
Lone  hunters   saw  thy   virgin   purity. 
Now  plenty's  garners  gild  the  quiet  fields, 
And  marts  are  swayed  by  olive-seep tered  peace; 
To  mighty  multitudes  her  wealth  she  yields, 
As  shifting  seasons  pass  and  years  increase; 
For  fair  "Columbia,"  bending  towards  the  west, 
Now  wears  this  crimson  rose  upon  her  breast. 


INTO  THE  VALLEY,  OVER  THE  RANGE. 

Into  the  valley,  over  the  range,  the  pioneer  must  go, 
Where  the  dark  pines  moan  a  requiem  mass,  o'er  the  spotless 

lands  of  snow, 
And  hearth-fires  bright,  and  the  true  love-light,  lie  far  on  the 

plains  below. 


VIRGINIA    DONAGHE   McCLURG. 

Into  the  valley,  over  the  range,  I  cannot  see  my  way, 

For  the  mists  cling  thick  to  the  stony  steeps,  ere  the  breaking 

of  the  day; 
Faint  voices  cry,  and  pale  ghosts  glide  by,  till  I  scarcely  dare 

to  pray. 

Into  the  valley,  over  the  range,  we  went,  my  wife  and  I, 

For  a  home  upon  the  fair  green  earth,  arched  o'er  by  the  clear 

blue  sky, 
When  life  was  new,  and  hearts  were  true,  in  the  days  that 

are  long  gone  by. 

Into  the  valley,  over  the  range,  there  came  our  angel  child; 
He  brightened  the  homely  cabin  with  his  presence  undented, 
And   work  was  rest,   and  we   were   blest — for   his  sunny   face 
that  smiled. 

Out   from    the   valley,    over   the   range,    they    wandered,    and 

were  gone — 

Mother  and  child  together— and  I  was  left  alone 
Beneath  the  sky,  so  fair  and  high,  where  they  could  not  hear 

me  moan! 

In  the  heart  of  the  valley,  over  the  range,  my  friends,  you'll 

find  a  claim, 
A   shining   lode   of  pure   pay-rock— 'twas    staked    in   the   dead 

boy's  name: 
Yours  is  the  dross,  wrhen  I  pass  across,  to  use  without  stint 

or  blame. 

Into  the  valley,  over  the  range,— dim  grow  my  fading  eyes, 
Yet  see  the  shining  bulwarks  of  the  range  everlasting  rise, 
The  valley  is  fair— and  two  wait  me  there— my  guides  to  par 
adise  ! 

13 


EVEIW'GS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

COLORADO  ANEMONES. 

(The  leaf  of  the  Anemone  does  not  appear  till  the  blossoms  have  withered.) 

Yes  !   it  is  just  a  year  ago, 

I  watched  these  fragile  blossoms  grow; 

The  soft  grey  buds  in  silkeu  sheath, 

Their  tender  petals  hid  beneath, 

Broke  from  the  earth,  where  darkness  reigns, 

To  nestle  on  these  western  plains. 

And  then  pale,  lilac  stars  unrolled 

Their  royal-hearted  wealth  of  gold; 

But  when  the  sunny  summer  tide 

Came  in  its  glow— the  flowers  died  ! 

Yet  where  their  shrivelled  stems  had  been. 

Grew  clustered  leaves  of  glossy  green. 

A  resurrection  crown  was  laid 

On  that  dark  grave  where  flowers  fade. 

Yes,  it  was  just  one  year  ago, 
I  watched  another  flower  grow— 
A  flower  of  love  that,  fair  and  sweet, 
Bloomed  at  the  spot  where  two  ways  meet; 
But,  when  the  future  opened  wide, 
And  promised  fair,  that  blossom  died. 
Yet  whisper,  flowers,  softly  tell— 
You  who  know  nature's  secrets  well— 
If,  from  that  dead  and  silent  past, 
A  friendship  shall  not  rise  at  last, 
Which,  ever  green  through  coining  years. 
Shall  recompense  for  toil  and  tears? 
I  know  not.    Wait  for  fate's  decrees, 
But  hope;  I  hope,  anemones! 

'4 


VIRGINIA    DONAGHE   McCLURG. 

A   HEART   OF   GOLD. 

( Rondeau. ) 

(TO  MARGARET  H.  D.   H.,   WITH  A   SOUVENIR  SPOON, — 
A   GOLD  HEART   WITH    DAISIES.) 

A  heart  oj  gold  the  daisy  shows, 
As  summer  winds  blow  down  the  close. 
Each  slim  white  petal's  starry  ray 
Shrinks  from  the  royal  disk  away, 
Its  golden  glory  to  disclose. 

My  Marguerite,  her  lover  knows, 
Is  like  the  fairest  flower  that  blows— 
Hers— (like  the  daisy's  in  the  May) 
A  heart  of  gold. 

Thus,  in  a  world  so  full  of  woes, 

Of  faithless  friends  and  fatal  foes, 

Where  flowers  fade,  and  Mays  betray, 
Her  royal  truth  is  strength  and  stay — 

White  shrine  !    where  rests  in  pure  repose, 
A  heart  of  gold. 

EASTER  CHIMES. 
San  Juan  Capistrano.     (California.) 

In  the  church  of  Capistrano, — tarnished,  voiceless, 
In  their  old  adobe  arches  swing  the  bells; 

Along  ancient  aisles  the  ghostly  years  slip,  noiseless, 
By  void  altars  where  no  prayer  or  psalm  e'er  swells. 

15 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Fervent  Fathers,— iu  the.  days  now  long  forgotten, 
To  the  docile,  soft-eyed  children  of  the  sun, 

When  the  almond  and  the  vine  began  to  blossom,— 
Told  of  Death  deep-buried,  and  Life's  victory  woii. 

And  the  bells  of  Capistrano  chimed  out,  joyous, 
Solemn-deep  and  sweetly  clear  on  Easter  morn, — 

Priest  and  people  swelled  the  resurrection  chorus, — 
"Christ  is  risen  and  the  spring-time  now  is  born  !" 

"Padres"— "penitentes"— sleep  within  the  Mission, 
Girt  about  by  cactus  with  its  guardian  thorn — 

Chimes,  in  echo,  peal  beyond  long  years'  demission, 
"Christ  is  risen  and  the  spring-time  now  is  born!" 


HELEN  HUNT'S  GRAVE. 

God,  for  the  man  who  knew  Him  fa^e  to  face 
Prepared  a  grave  apart,  a  tomb  unknown, 
Where  dews  drop  tears,  and  only  winds  make  moan, 

And  white  archangels  guard  the  narrow  space. 

God  gives  to  His  beloved  sleep;    the  pl:i<-<> 

Where  His  seer  slept  was  set  remote,  for  rest, 
After  the  forty  years  of  desert  quest, 

The  Sinai  terrors,  and  the  Pisgah  grace. 

So,  clear-eyed  priestess,  sleep  !    remembering  not 
The  fiery  scathe  of  life,  nor  trackless  years; 

Not  even  Canaan's  sun-kissed,  flowery  meads. 

God  shields,  within  His  hollowed  hand,  the  spot 
Where  brooding  peace  rebukes  unquiet  tears. 

She  sleepeth  well  who  hath  wrought  such  noble  deeds! 

16 


VIRGINIA   DONAGHE   McCLURG. 


VIRGINIA    DONAGHE   McCLURG. 


THE   QUESTIONER   OF   THE   SPHINX. 

Behold  me!   with  swift  foot  across  the  land, 
Where  desert  winds  are  sleeping,  I  am  come 
To  wrest  a  secret  from  thee;   O  thou,  dumb, 

And  careless  of  my  puny  lips'  command. 

Cold  orbs  !  mine  eyes  a  weary  world  have  scanned. 
Slow  ear  !    in  mine  rings  ever  a  vexed  hum 
Of  sobs  and  strife.     Of  joy,  mine  earthly  sum 

Is  buried  as  thy  form  in  burning  sand. 

The  wisdom  of  the  ages  thou  hast  heard; 

The  circling  courses  of  the  stars  hast  known. 

Awake  !   Thrill  !    By  my  feverish  presence  stirred, 
Open  thy  lips  to  still  my  human  moan, 

Breathe  forth  one  glorious  and  mysterious  word, 

Though  I  should  stand,  in  turn,  transfixed,— a  stone  ! 


INAUGURAL    VERSES    FOR    THE    WOMAN'S 
CLUB,  OF  DENVER— 1894. 

PART  I.     CREATION. 

O,  the  glory  and  the  gleaming,  of  that  early,  primal,  morning, 
When  from  out  dim  depths  of  chaos  rose  the  radiant,  new-born 

earth, 
With  the  sun's  gold  shield  on  azure  blazoned  on  the  sky  at 

dawning, 
And  the  unbreathed  air  repeating  the  soft  secrets  of  its  birth. 

17 


EVE. \I.\GS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 
II. 

Verdant  freshness  of  the  verdure  where  wild  creatures  roam 

at  pleasure, 

Bird  and  insect  winging  upward,  in  air  spaces  clear  and  free — 
And  the  fishes,  skimming,  darting,  where  the  deep  reveals  its 

treasure — 
Beryl  foam-crests  curling  over  depths  of  crystal-hearted  sea  ! 


III. 


In  that  garden,  east  in  Eden,  god-like  man,  of  all  the  centre, 
In  his  kingdom-world  exulted,  with  strong  heartleaps,  and  was 

glad- 
But  when  evening  stars  shine  trembling,  and  the  falling  shad 
ows  enter, 
And  the  pale  moon  rides  in  heaven,  wistful  yearns  he,  and  is  sad. 


IV. 


Best  of  all  the  gifts  from   heaven,  then  she  came,  God-given 

Woman, 

With  the  Eden  roses  blushing  at  the  passing  of  her  feet, 
Queenly-statured,    angel-featured,     and    her    eyes    so     tender, 

human,— 
That  strong  man  long  therein  gazing,  found  his  rounded  world 

complete. 

18 


VIRGINIA    DON  AC  HE   McCLURG. 

V. 

Iii  that  green  arid  glorious  garden,  she  was  queen  of  all  the 

splendour; 

Of  the  flowers  and  the  fruitage,  blissful  blooms  of  Paradise  ! 
Then    among    the    thorns    and    thistles,    she,    in    sadness    of 

surrender, 
Wandering,  sin-barred,   saw  before  her,  angel-guarded  portals 

rise. 


VI. 


So,  the  old,  oiu  world  has  k-nown  her;  now  in  joy,  and  now  in 
sorrow, 

Since  that  archetypal  morning,  when  all  living  things  had  birth; 

And  strong  man  her  presence  blesses,  with  each  varying  to 
morrow, 

He  still  finds,  through  time's  mutations,  Woman,  God's  best  gift 
to  Earth  ! 


PART  II.     LIFE. 

I.      HOME. 

With  the  bright  hearth  fires  burning,  and  the  love-light  never 

failing, 
Birth   and   death   are  mysteries  holy,   and  serene  peace-angels 

come; 
Joy  and  duty  guard  the  threshold,   whence  rude  cares  shrink 

unassailing, 
When  the  gentle  woman  presence  makes  the  sunshine  of  the 

Home. 

19 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 
II.      EDUCATION. 

Who  shall  educate  the  children,  train  and  tune  melodious  voices, 

In  the  swelling  diapason  of  the  beautiful  and  true? 

Here  the  woman's  hands  are  busy,  all  the  while   her  heart 

rejoices, 
As   she   rears   that   noble    temple   whence   the   wakened    soul 

looks  through. 

III.      PHILANTHROPY. 

To  the  sorrowing  and  suffering,  giving  in  unstinted  measure, 
Of  the  care  that  never  faileth  in  the  wisdom  of  its  plan; 
Lady  Bountiful  is  standing,  with  the  largess  of  her  treasure, 
Pulses  chiming   with  the   heavenly   heart  of  Love  that   beats 
for  Man! 

IV.      ART  AND  LITERATURE. 

Art  has  caught  the  fleeting  rainbow,  set  the  colors  of  its  glory 
Far  adown  the  pictured  vistas  where  stand  statues  fair  and  cold; 
And  soft  strains  of  music  breathing,  through  the  realm  of 

Song  and  Story, 
Charm  fair  woman  as  she  wanders  midst  Ideals  manifold. 

V.    REFORM. 

For  the  battle  that  needs  fighting;    for  the  wrong  that  wants 

the  righting; 
Where  the  shams  and   sins  are  surging  in  the  stress  and   In 

the  storm; 

20 


VIRGINIA    DONAGHE   McCLURG. 

White-armed  woman  holds  her  torch-flame  toward  the  Dark 
ened  that  lack  lighting, 

And  triumphant  thrills  her  war-cry — "Justice  !  Honour  !  and 
Reform  !" 

VI.      SCIENCE   AND   PHILOSOPHY. 

O,  to  learn  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  knowing  and  the  being, 
From   the   shimmering,    sparkling   star-dust,   to   the   crumbling 

of  the  clod  ! 
Heights  of  Science  and  of  Wisdom,  where  stands  Woman  rapt, 

and  seeing, 
All  the  schemes  of  spheres  revolving  round  the  central  throne 

of  God! 

L' ENVOI. 
I. 

Virgin  plains  of  Colorado,  mountain  silences  unbroken 

Lie  before  queen-regnant  Woman,  as  she  westward  takes  her 

way. 

While  -the  sunset's  benediction  gilds  her  pathway  as  a  token, 
That  New  West,   like  old  world's   dawning,   bows  before   her 

sovereign    sway. 

II. 

O,  my  sisters,  for  the  harvest— lo  !  a  thousand  fields  lie 
whitening; 

And  the  bands  of  faithful  reapers  span  the  great  earth's  giant 
girth. 

Hands  and  hearts  we  join  the  number,  till  th'  Eternal  Morn 
ing  brightening, 

Higher  voices  hail  with  paeans— Woman  !  God's  best  gift  to 
Earth  ! 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


THE    LIFE    MASK. 

Lo  !   one  wayfaring  on  a  devious  track, 

The  while  a  changeful  mask  concealed  his  face- 
Sometimes  it  smiled  with  all  compelling  grace, 
Or  lowered  with  a  frown  of  thunderous  black, 
Was  flushed  with  hope,  or  lingeringly  looked  back. 
But  none  beneath  that  plastic  mask  could  trace 
The  truthful  features  of  the  traveller's  face- 
Know  if  his  soul  were  fed  or  suffered  lack. 

One  day  men  found  liim  wrapt  in  pale  repose; 
His  face,  before  unseen,  effulged  with  light, 

And  flxed  eyes  with  a  deep  gladness  rife, 
As  his,  who  sees  at  length  the  way  he  goes- 
Dead  brow  upturned  to  tlfc  red  Kast,  dawu-bright- 
A  shattered  mask  beside,  that  had  been  life. 


j.   ERNEST  WHITNEY. 


3.  Ernest 


THE   GLORY   OF   THE   YEAR. 


When  Spring  came  softly  breathing  o'er  the  land, 
With  warmer  sunshine  and  sweet  April  shower; 

Bidding  the  silken  willow  leaves  expand; 
Calling  to  hill  and  meadow,  bee  and  flower, 

Bright  with  new  life  and  beauty;  on  light  wing 

Bringing  the  birds  again  to  love  and  sing; 
And  waking  in  the  heart  its  joy  amain, 
With  old  fond  hopes  and  memories  in  its  train; 

Childishly  glad  mid  universal  cheer, 
How  oft  we  sang  the  half-forgotten  strain: 

"Now  we  behold  the  glory  of  the  year  !" 

When  Summer  by  her  fervid  breezes  fanned, 

With  footstep  free  and  proud  in  restless  power. 
With  plump,  round  cheek  to  ruddy  beauty  tanned, 

In  blooming  loveliness  came  to  her  bower, 
Her  golden  tresses  loosely  wandering 
In  wild  "luxuriance. — then  pretty  Spring 

Seemed  but  a  playful  sister,  pettish,  vain. 

How  well  we  loved  the  passionate  Summer's  reign  ! 
How  day  by  day  our  empress  grew  more  dear  ! 

"Beyond,"  we  asked,  "what  fairer  can  remain? 
Now  we  behold  the  glory  of  the  year  !" 

23 


E VENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

But  when  grave  Autumn's  ever  bounteous  hand 
Poured  round  our  feet  the  riches  of  her  dower: 

The  pulpy  fruit,  the  nut's  sweet  ripened  gland, 
The  largess  free  to  gleaner  and  to  plower, 

And  all  the  Summer  sought  in  vain  to  bring; 

When  stood  the  hills  in  glorious  garmenting; 
Shadowed  by  low-hung  skies  of  sober  grain, 
No  more  could  our  ennobled  thoughts  sustain 

Regretful  memory  of  Summer  sere, — 
"What  of  the  past  !"  we  cried  in  quick  disdain; 

11  Now  we  behold  the  glory  of  the  year  !" 


Then  before  mighty  Winter,  stern  and  grand, 
We  saw  defenseless  Autumn  shivering,  cower, 

Changed  to  Duessa  by  his  potent  wand, 
Shorn  of  her  loveliness,  in  Fortune's  lower 

Naked  for  Winter's  scourge  to  smite  and  sting. 

How  godlike  came  the  world's  new  sceptered  King  ! 
He  fettered  fast  her  torrents  with  his  chain, 
Bound  with  his  manacles  the  moaning  main, 

Yea,  wrought  his  will  with  all  things  far  and  near. 
"At  last,"  we  said,  "what  more  can  Time  attain? 

Now  .we  behold  the  glory  of  the  year  !" 

Neglected  Spring,  despised,  insulted,  banned  ! 

Poor  weakling  !   came  again  one  April  hour, 
The  tyrant  struck  his  tent  at  her  command; 

She  laughed,— down  tumbling  fell  his  frosty  tower; 
At  one  light  finger-touch  his  captives  fling 
Their  shackles  off  and  make  the  valleys  ring 

With  praises  to  the  conqueror  of  pain. 

24 


J.  ERNEST  WHITNEY. 


J.    ERNEST    WHITNEY. 

All  the  lost  lives  that  languishing  have  lain, 
Leaves,  grasses,  buds,  and  birds  again  appear, 

"O  now  !"  we  cried  again  and  yet  again, 
"Now  we  behold  the  glory  of  the  year  !" 

Prince,   while   Spring   sports   with   sunbeam,   flower,   and 

rain, — 

While  wanton  Summer  riots  on  the  plain,— 
'Neath  Autumn's  calm,  or  Winter's  frown  severe, 
Change  only  clearer  chants  the  old  refrain, 
"Now  we  behold  the  glory  of  the  year  !" 


PIKE'S    PEAK. 

Lone,  hoary  monarch  of  the  Titan  peaks, 
Offspring  of  heaven  and  earth  in  planet  jars, 
Bare-bodied  savage,  grim  with  unhealed  scars, 
To  thy  wild  band  thy  voice  in  thunder  speaks; 

Thy  sword  stroke  is  the  avalanche  that  wreaks 
Quick  vengeance  on  thy  kneeling  victim.     Wars 
Come  but  to  yield  thee  homage,  and  the  stars 
Visit  thee  nightly,  yet  thy  long  gaze  seeks 

Unsatisfied  the  playmate  of  thy  prime — 
O  longing  like  to  mine  !— that  goddess  bright, 
The  ocean  stream.     O  deep  embrace  !   that  time 

Forgets  not,  ere  stern  gods  beyond  thy  sight 

Her  dungeons  sunk.     Thy   memory  that;    thy   hope 

This  ocean-seeking  stream  that  cheers  thy  slope. 

25 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


ASLEEP. 


When  nrst  we  beard  in  early  spring 
The  tender,  plaintive  bluebird  sing, 
She  fell  asleep  while  listening. 

A  slumber  dreamless,  calm,  and  deep, 
O'er  all  her  senses  seemed  to  creep. 
Day  'after  day  she  holds  her  sleep. 

We  laid  her,  for  her  restful  hours, 

Within  the  fairest  of  her  bowers 

Where  brightest  grew  her  chosen  flowers. 

The  green  grass  o'er  her  threw  his  cloak, 
Above  her  bed  the  crocus  woke, 
A  hundred  buds  in  blossom  broke. 

The  little  birds  she  loved  so  well 
Sing  softer  for  a  peaceful  spell 
That  round  her  pillow  seems  to  dwell. 

Soft  summer  breezes  murmur'  nigh, 
The  crickets  chirp  there  drowsily, 
All  Nature  sings  her  lullaby. 

Her  slumber  is  too  sweet  to  break. 
She  cannot  know  life's  wrong  and  ache, 
And  yet— O  would  that  she  could  wake  ! 

26 


J.   ERNEST  WHITNEY. 

THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  THE  LARK. 

When  the  fairies  are  all  for  their  dances  drest, 

When  day's  discords  in  the  distance  fail, 
When  the  robin  and- wren  are  asleep  in  the  nest, 

Then  list  to  the  note  of  the  nightingale  ! 

But  when  diamonds  glint  on  the  dewy  swale, 
When  star-tires  are  fading  spark  by  spark, 

And  the  little  birds  all  the  dawning  hail, 
O  hark  to  the  song  of  the  merry  lark  ! 

When  over  the  hills  the  silver  crest 

Is  pouring  enchantment  on  mere  and  vale, 
And  the  world  lies  hushed  in  a  dreamy  rest, 

Then  list  to  the  note  of  the  nightingale  ! 

But  when  the  bright  sun  dight  iii  golden  mail 
Flames  over  the  tree  tops  in  the  park, 

And  the  world  goes  again  on  its  busy  trail, 
O  hark  to  the  song  of  the  merry  lark  ! 

When  the  young  heart  flutters  in  Mabel's  breast, 

And  Algernon's  cheek  for  once  only  is  pale, 
As  the  secret,  half  guessed,  is  at  last  confessed, 

Then  list  to  the  note  of  the  nightingale  ! 

But  when  Corydon  hides  in  a  turn  o'  the  dale, 
And  Phillis  is  met  where  no  one  may  mark, 

And  the  sudden  blush  and  the  kiss  tell  the  tale, 
O  hark  to  the  song  of  the  merry  lark  ! 

ENVOI. 
If  II  Penseroso's  mood  prevail. 

Then  list  to  the  note  of  the  nightingale  ! 
But  whenever  L' Allegro  woos.  then  hark. 

O  hark  to  the  song  of  the  merry  lark  ! 

27 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


COLORADO. 

Land  of  the  undimmed  heaven  !    where  the  earth 
Hath  reared  her  noblest  altar  to  the  sun, 
A  continent  its  basis,  and  when  done 
Gapt  with  the  navel  of  creation's  birth. 

Here  the  new  light  first  burst  the  world-cloud's  girth; 
Here  through  the  sky  a  bluer  woof  is  spun; 
A  kindlier  heat  is  from  the  day-god  won, 
Danae's  boon  freed  from  its  curse  of  dearth. 

The  land  of  beauty  and  sublimity, 

The  land  of  color,  the  world's  wonderland; 

Earth's  teeming  mint  where  orient  ores  expand; 

The  haunted  home  of  ancient  mystery; 

And  in  this  world  of  death,  disease,  and  strife, 

The  one  true  home  of  peace  and  hope  and  life. 


GATEWAY  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  GODS. 

'TIs  the  gate  of  the  mountains,  the  gate  to  the  plains, 
The  gate  to  a  world  of  new,  unknown  domains; 
And  the  hosts  of  the  east  throng  through  it,  wide  ope, 
For  they  read  on  its  portals  "The  haven  of  hope." 

'Twas  the  gate  of  the  dawn  of  the  first  morning  bright, 
And  still  feels  the  glow  of  creation's  new  light. 
Wide  swung  on  the  marge  of  the  sea  and  the  land, 
Through  it  crawled  the  monsters  that  haunted  the  strand 

28 


J.   ERNEST    WHITNEY. 

In  primeval  ages.     Its  threshold  was  worn 
By  life's  long  processions  while  Eden,  forlorn, 
Still  waited  life's  promises.     Under  its  arch 
Passed  race  after  race  in  humanity's  march 

When  the  bound  of  the  west,  to  the  mind  of  the  east, 
Was  the  gate  where  Alcides  his  wandering  ceased. 
What  wonder  the  poet  who  under  it  trod 
Deemed  he  walked  through  the  gate  of  the  garden  of  God. 

For  it  rose  in  a  glory  of  transcendent  gleams 
Like  the  vision  which  shone  on  the  prophet  in  dreams; 
And  he  saw  through  its  portals,  through  vistas  sublime, 
The  wonders  God  works  in  earth's  happiest  clime. 


THE   MOURNERS   ON   CHEYENNE. 

(AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  H  H.) 

There  Summer  cometh,  shuddering  at  death, 
Bowing  her  regal  beauty  in  her  dread 

Long  bitterness  of  loss,  and  scattereth 

Dust,  dust  and  bitter  ashes  o'er  the  dead. 

There  sobered  Autumn  in  funereal  weed, 

With  locks  dishevelled,  leaves  her  ripest  sheaf. 

And  while  low  winds  a  solemn  requiem  lead, 

She,  lingering,  weeps  her  fill  of  wasting  grief. 

And  Winter,  from  the  battle  fields  of  storm, 

Scarred,  worn,  and  woe-racked,  yearly  bringeth  there 

His  calm  white  shroud,  to  spread  above  that  form, 
Keeping  unjarred  the  peace  he  cannot  share. 

29 


WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

And  Spring,  with  dew-bright  eyes  gladdened  with  hope, 
Brings  hither  all  the  first  flowers  of  the  lea; 

And  while  with  brow  toward  heaven  her  eye-lids  ope, 
She  softly  whispers  "Immortality  !" 


IN   MONUMENT   PARK. 

v 

Read  the  story  of  the  stones  ! 
We  are  in  the  house  of  thrones, 
On  the  graves  of  empires  dead 
When  the  earth  but  giants  bred, 

And  our  race  of  petty  men 
Lived  but  in  the  prophet's  ken. 
Crumbled  are  their  palace  walls, 
Roofless  lie  their  empty  halls. 

And  the  pillars  stand  in  vain 
Bowed  beneath  their  ancient  strain. 
Dust  are  all  the  kings  to-day 
Who  amid  these  courts  held  sway; 

Humbled  are  the  temple  gods, 
And  the  broken  idol  nods 
O'er  the  altar,  bare  and  cold, 
Where  the  victim  knelt  of  old; 

But  the  groups  of  regal  forms, 
Changeless  through  a  thousand  storms, 
Mute  historians  of  the  past, 
Tell  the  ancient  tales  at  last. 

3° 


/.    ERNEST    WHITNEY. 

Nay,   what  grace  can  artifice 
Add  to  such  a  scene  as  this  ! 
Then  away  with  fancy's  guess  ! 
Better  Nature's  truthfulness, 

Simple,  beautiful,  sincere, 
She  hath  nobler  history  here, 
Eloquent  to  every  heart 
More  than  utterance  of  art. 

Solemn  as  a  chanted  hymn 
In  cathedral  cloister  dim. 
Even  the  savage  in  this  dell 

Felt  the  soul  within  him  swell 
With  the  sense  of  higher  things 
Which  the  best  of  nature  brings. 


EVENINGS    WITH   COLORADO   POETS. 


Stanley  Wooix 

TELLOCHA'S  DELIGHT. 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  DAYS   OF   MONTEZUMA. 

Faint  are  the  flowers,  for  the  sunbeams  fall  with  the 
flash  of  a  sword, 

Sad  are  the  hearts  in  Tellocha  that  mourn  for  the  loss 
of  their  lord. 

Fierce  in  their  foray  the  foe  were,  swift  as  the  lightning, 
at  night 

Struck  they  and  vanished,  but  with  them  vanished  Tel 
locha'  s  delight 

Brave  was  the  lord  of  Tellocha,  stalwart  of  soul  and  of 

limb, 
Oounciling  wise  as  the  serpent,  in  battle  as  catamount 

grim; 
Far  to  the  front  was  he  fighting,  leading  the  van  of  the 

fight; 
The  foe  struck  and  vanished,  but  with  them  vanished  Tel- 

locha's  delight 
Loud  laughed  the  foe,  for  the  Chalcas  well  knew  the  prize 

they  had  won; 

Brother  to  great  Montezuma,  "Prince  of  the  Land  of  Sun." 
Planned  they  and  plotted  to  win  him,  proffered  him  wealth 

and  renown, 
Would  he  but  lead  them  In  battle,  tendered  him  kingdom 

and  crown. 

32 


STANLEY    WOOD. 

Fierce  burned  the  heart  of  the  warrior,  serpentwise  twisted 

his  speech: 
"Build  me  a  temple  whose  tower  high  over  ramparts  shall 

reach, 

When  it  is  finished  and  from  it  gazing,  I  speak  to  you  all, 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  I  promise,  the  pride  of  Tellocha 

shall  fall." 

Gladly  the  Chalcas  obeyed  him,  builded  was  temple  with 

tower; 
While  it  was  building  Tellocha  mustered  with  purpose  and 

power, 
Camped  before  Chalco  they  waited,  waited  for  sign  from 

their  lord, 
Waited  the  sign  for  the  onset,  waited  with  hand  upon 

sword. 

Builded  the  tower  and  the  temple,  clad  in  his  armor,  the 
chief 

Stood  in  the  court-yard  a  moment,  bowed  was  his  head  as 
in  grief; 

Sternly  he  spoke  to  the  serried  ranks  of  the  Chalcas,  "Re 
call 

The  promise  I  gave  you,  oh,  soldiers  !  the  pride  of  Tello 
cha  shall  fall." 

Loudly  the  warriors  applauded,  clashing  their  shields  with 

their  spears, 
Loudly  the  war  drums  re-echoed,  proudly  re-echoed  their 

cheers; 

Slowly  the  Lord  of  Tellocha  climbs  to  the  uttermost  spire, 
Stands  there,  the  sun  on  his  armor  gleaming,  a  statue  of 

fire. 

33 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Stands  there  a  moment  suspended  between  the  earth  and 

the  sky, 

Glances  a  moment  beneath  him,  glances  a  moment  on  high, 
Then  with  a  shout  of  defiance,  drawing  his  glittering  blade, 
Flings  it  far  over  the  ramparts— the  sign  for  the  onset  is 

made. 

"Charge,  Oh  Tellochas  !"  he  shouted.  "Tis  I,  your  chief 
tain,  commands; 

Yonder  the  wall  is  the  weakest,  the  fortress  I  give  to  your 
hands." 

Then  turning  in  scorn  to  the  Chalcas:  "Cravens,  my  prom 
ise  recall, 

Sacred  my  compact,  I  keep  it.  the  pride  of  Tellocha  shall 
fall." 

One  look  to  his  battling  warriors,  one  prayer  to  the  mon 
arch  of  fire, 

One  sigh  for  the  life  he  is  leaving,  he  leaps  from  the  utter 
most  spire. 

He  falls  as  a  star  from  the  heavens,  his  daring  the  bravest 
appalls; 

O  !  sacred  his  promise,  he  keeps  it,  the  pride  of  Tellocha 
thus  falls. 

Fierce  at  the  sight  of  his  falling,  fierce  as  siroccas'  fierce 

breath, 
The  warriors  burst  into  the  fortress,  the  Chalcas  are  put 

to  the  death. 
No  stone  is  left  of  the  city  when  gathered  the  shadows 

of  night 
Save  the  temple,   made   sacred  by   sorrow,   the  tomb   of 

Tellocha's  delight. 

34 


STANLEY    WOOD. 

Faint  are  the  flowers,  for  the  sunbeams  fall  with  the  flash 

of  a  sword; 
Sad  are  the  hearts  in  Tellocha  that  inourn  for  the  loss  of 

their  lord; 
But  bright  as  the  stars  which  illumine  the  heavens  with 

their  splendor  at  night 
Shines  the  fame  of  the  hero  whose  glory  is  ever  Tellocha's 

delight. 


CHEYENNE     CANON. 

Oh,  Cheyenne  canon  !    in  thy  dim  defiles, 
Where  glooms  the  light,  as  through  cathedral  aisles, 
Where  flash  and  fall  bright  waters,  pure  as  air, 
Where  wild  birds  brood,  wild  blossoms  bloom,  and  where 
The  wind  sings  anthems  through  the  darkling  trees, 
A  presence  breathes  the  tenderest  melodies, 

Songs  that  the  finer  ears  of  poets  feel 
But  do  not  hear,  ethereal  chords  that  steal 
Upon  the  soul,  as  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 
Unseen,  unknown,  from  undiscovered  bowers, 
Enwraps  the  senses  with  a  deep  delight, 
Pure  as  the  stars  and  tender  as  the  night. 

For  here  in  Nature's  arms  there  lies  asleep 
One  who  loved  Nature  with  a  passion  deep, 
Who  knew  her  language  and  who  read  her  book, 
Who  sang  her  music,  which  the  bird,  the  brook, 
The  winds,  the  woods,  the  mountains  and  the  seas 
Chant  ever,  in  commingling  harmonies. 

35 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Oh,  Cheyenne  cauoii  !    through  thy  dim  denies 

The  music  floats  as  through  cathedral  aisles; 

The  singer  silent,  but  the  song  is  heard 

In  sigh  of  wind  and  carolling  of  bird. 

All  these  the  poet's  melodies  prolong, 

For  Nature  now  sings  o'er  her  loved  one's  song. 


DAINTY   DAUGHTER. 

Dainty  daughter,  hail  to  thee! 

Fair  in  thy  fragility. 

Fair  are  peach  blooms  on  a  spray, 

Fair  art  thou,  as  fair  as  they, 

While  the  pink  of  yonder  shell 

Mantles  in  thy  cheek  as  well. 

Sea-waves  have  an  azure  hue, 

Eyes  hast  thou  as  sea- waves  blue; 

Soft  thy  hair  as  thistle-down, 

As  the  comely  chestnut  brown. 

All  thy  motions  wild  and  free 

As  the  wild  waves  of  the  sea— 

Of  the  sea  whose  tossing  waves 

Ploughed  like  furrows,  heaped  like  graves, 

Cast  upon  the  waiting  shore 

Sea-drift  now  and  ever  more. 

'Tis  not  long  since  thou  didst  reach 
Earth's  rock-bound  and  hostile  beach. 
Thou  must  still  remember  well 
How  the  billows  rose  and  fell 
On  the  shore,  beyond  the  sea 
Whence  thou  comest  weepingly. 

36 


STANLEY    WOOD. 

Didst  thou  weep  to  find  the  earth 
Cold,  and  hard  and  little  worth? 
Like  some  wanderer  in  a  town 
When  the  shadows  hover  down, 
When  the  lamp-lights  glimmer  white — 
Blooming  lilies  of  the  night— 
And  the  myriad-peopled  street 
Echoes  with  the  sullen  beat 
Of  the  restless  tramping  feet; 

Didst  thou  find  thyself  alone? 
Couldst  thou  catch  no  kindred  tone? 
Like  this  wand'rer  as  he  stands 
On  the  shore  with  folded  hands, 
Moistened  eye  and  saddened  lip. — 
Stands  to  watch  the  stately  ship 
Dropping  down  into  the  night; 
Ship,  that  sailing  down  the  bay, 
Bears  his  only  friend  away, 
While  behind  him  roars  the  town 
As  the  gloaming  settles  down; 
Like  this  wand'rer  couldst  thou  find 
Ne'er  a  friend  in  human  kind? 

Thou  hast  sailed  the  clouded  sea 
Of  the  unknown,  can  it  be 
That  blown  outward  by  the  gale, 
Thou  hast  seen  some  foreign  sail 
From  this  cold,  sad  world  of  ours, 
Sailing  to  the  Land  of  Flowers? 
Didst  thou  speak  the  ghostly  barque 
As  thou  sailedst  through  the  dark, 

37 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Asking  news  of  that  strange  shore 
Earth,  thy  spirit's  labrador? 
Didst  thou  catch  the  answering  hail, 
Warning  thee  of  woe  and  bale- 
Warning  thee  of  rock  and  shoal 
That  awaits  the  untried  soul? 
Vain  the  question,  do  not  I 
Know  thou  canst  not  make  reply? 


Thy  sweet  lips— a  rosebud  each — 
Have  not  bloomed  in  rose  of  speech; 
And  when  thou  hast  learned  the  tone 
Of  this  world,  this  world  alone, 
Wilt  engage  thy  spirit,  then 
Thou  wilt  speak  the  speech  of  men. 
But  couldst  thou  in  angel  tongue 
Tell  me  what  the  boatman  sung. 
Voyaging  through  the  vast  profound, 
Happy  sailors,  homeward  bound 
From  this  cold,  sad  world  of  ours, 
Sailing  to  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
Tell  me  of  the  golden  street 
Trod  by  white  angelic  feet, 
Tell  me  of  the  brightest  gem 
In  the  new  Jerusalem, 
Thou  couldst  never  dearer  be; 
Dainty  daughter,  hail  to  thee! 


STANLEY    WOOD. 


HOMES  OF  THE  CLIFF-DWELLERS. 

Headlands  of  Hoven-Weep. 

In  the  sad  Southwest,  in  the  mystical  Sunland, 

Far  from  the  toil  and  the  turmoil  of  gain; 
Hid  in  the  heart  of  the  only— the  one  land 

Beloved  of  the  Sun,  and  bereft  of  the  rain; 
The  one  weird  land  where  the  wild  winds  blowing, 

Sweep  with  a  wail  o'er  the  plains  of  the  dead, 
A  ruin  ancient  beyond  all  knowing, 

Rears  its  head. 

On  the*  canon's  side,  in  the  ample  hollow, 

That  the  keen  winds  carved  in  ages  past, 
The  Castle  walls,  like  the  nest  of  a  swallow, 

Have  clung  and  have  crumbled  to  this  at  last. 
The  ages  since  man's  foot  has  rested 

Within  these  walls,  no  man  may  know; 
I  For  here  the  fierce  grey  eagle  nested 

Long  ago. 

Above  those  walls  the  crags  lean  over, 

Below,  they  dip  to  the  river's  bed; 

Between,  fierce- winged  creatures  hover; 

Beyond,  the  plain's  wild  waste  is  spread. 
No  foot  has  climbed  the  pathway  dizzy, 

That  crawls  away  from  the  blasted  heath, 
Since  last  it  felt  the  ever  busy 

Foot  of  Death. 

39 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS 

In  that  haunted  castle — it  must  be  haunted, 

For  rnen  have  lived  here,  and  men  have  died, 
And  maidens  loved,  and  lovers  daunted, 

Have  hoped  and  feared,  have  laughed  and  sighed- 
In  that  haunted  Castle  the  dust  lias  drifted, 
But  the  eagles  only  may  hope  to  see 
What  shattered  Shrines  and  what  Altars  rifted, 
There  may  be. 

The  white,  bright  rays  of  the  sunbeam  sought  it; 

The  cold,  clear  light  of  the  moon  fell  here; 
The  west  wind  sighed,  and  the  south  wind  brought  it 

Songs  of  Summer  year  after  year. 
Runes  of  Summer,  but  mute  aiid  runeless, 

The  Castle  stood;    no  voice  was  heard, 
Save  the  harsh,  discordant,  wild  and  tuneless 

Cry  of  bird. 

The  spring  rains  poured,  and  the  torrent  rifted 

A  deeper  way — the  foam-flakes  fell, 
Held  for  a  moment  poised  and  lifted, 

Down  to  a  fiercer  whirlpool's  hell. 
On  the  Castle  tower  no  guard,  in  wonder, 

Paused  in  his  marching  to  and  fro, 
For  on  the  turret  the  mighty  thunder 
Found  no  foe. 

No  voice  of  Spring— no  Summer  glories 
May  wake  the  warders  from  their  sleep, 

Their  graves  are  made  by  the  sad  Dolores, 
And  the  barren  headlands  of  Hoven-weep. 

40 


STANLEY    WOOD. 

Their  graves  are  nameless — their  race  forgotten. 
Their  deeds,  their  words,  their  fate,  are  one 

With  the  mist,  long  ages  past  begotten, 
Of  the  Sun. 

Those  castled  cliffs  they  made  their  dwelling; 

They  lived  and  loved,  they  fought  and  fell; 
No  faint,  far  voice  comes  to  us  telling 

More  than  those  crumbling  walls  can  tell. 
They  lived  their  life,  their  fate  fulfilling, 

Then  drew  their  last  faint,  faltering  breath, 
Their  hearts,   congealed,   clutched  by  the  chilling 

Hand  of  Death. 

Dismantled  towers,  and  turrets  broken, 

Like  grim  and  war-worn  braves  who  keep 
A  silent  guard,  with  grief  unspoken 

Watch  o'er  the  graves  by  the  Hoven-weep. 
The  nameless  graves  of  a  race  forgotten; 

Whose  deeds,  whose  words,  whose  fate  are  one 
With  the  mist,  long  ages  past  begotten, 

Of   the    Sun. 


Eugene  jftelfc. 


CASEY'S  TABLE  D'HOTE. 

Oh,  them  days  on  Ked  Hoss  Mountain,   when  the  skies  wuz 

fair  'nd  blue, 
When  the  money  flowed  like  likker,  'nd  the  folks  wuz  brave 

'nd  trne! 
When    the    nights   wuz    crisp    'nd   balmy,    'nd    the    camp    wuz 

all  astir, 

With  the  joints  all  throwed  wide  open  'nd  no  sheriff  to  demur! 
Oh,  them  times  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain  in  the  Rockies  fur  away — 
There's  no  sich  place  nor  times  like  them  as  I  kin  find  to-day! 
What  though  the  camp  hez  busted?   I  seem  to  see  it  still 
A-lyin',  like  it  loved  it,  on  that  big  'nd  warty  hill; 
And  I  feel  a  sort  of  yearnin'  'nd  a  chokin'  in  my  throat 
When  I  think  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  'nd  of  Casey's  tabble  dote! 

Wall,  yes;   it's  true  I  struck  it  rich,  but  that  don't  cut  a  show 
When  one  is  old  'nd  feeble  'nd  it's  nigh  his  time  to  go; 
The  money  that  he's  got  in  bonds  or  carries  to  invest 
Don't  figger  with  a  codger  who  has  lived  a  life  out  West; 
Us  old  chaps  like  to  set  around,  away  from  folks  'nd  noise, 
'Nd  think  about  the  sights  we  seen  and  things  we  done  when 

boys; 

The  which  is  why  I  love  to  set  'nd  think  of  them  old  days 
When  all  us  Western  fellers  got  the  Colorado  craze,— 
And  that  is  why  I  love  to  set  around  all  day  'ud  gloat 
On  thoughts  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  'nd  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

42 


EUGENE   FIELD. 

This  Casey  wuz  an  Irishman — you'd  know  it  by  his  name 

And  by  the  facial  features  appertainin'  to  the  same. 

He'd  lived  in  many  places  'nd  had  done  a  thousand  things, 

From  the  noble  art  of  actin'  to  the  work  of  dealin'  kings, 

But,  somehow,  hadn't  caught  on;    so,  driftiu'  with  the  rest, 

He  drifted  for  a  fortune  to  the  undeveloped  West, 

And   he   come  to   Red   Hoss   Mountain    when    the   little    camp 

wuz  new, 
When  the  money  flowed  like  likker,  'nd  the  folks  wuz  brave 

'nd  true; 

And,  havin'  been  a  Stewart  on  a  Mississippi  boat, 
He  opened  up  a  caffy  'nd  he  run  a  tabble  dote. 


The  bar  wuz  long  'nd  raugey,  with  a  mirrer  on  the  shelf, 

'Nd  a  pistol,  so  that  Casey,  when  required,  could  help  himself; 

Down  underneath  there  wuz  a  row  of  bottled  beer  'nd  wine, 

'Nd  a  kag  of  Burbun  whiskey  of  the  run  of  '59; 

Upon  the  walls  wuz  pictures  of  bosses  'ud  of  girls,— 

Not  much  on  dress,  perhaps,  but  strong  on  records  'nd  on  curls! 

The  which  had  been  identified  with  Casey  in  the  past,— 

The  bosses  'nd  the  girls,  I  mean,— and  both  wuz  mlgnty  fast ! 

But  all  these  fine  attractions  wuz  of  precious,  little  note 

By  the  side  of  what  wuz  offered  at  Casey's  tabble  dote. 


There  wuz  half-a-dozen  tables  altogether  in  the  place, 
And  the  tax  you  had  to  pay  upon  your  vitals  wuz  a  case; 
The  boardin'-houses  in  the  camp  protested  'twuz  a  shame 
To  patronize  a  robber,  which  this  Casey  wuz  the  same! 
.They  said  a  case  was  robbery  to  tax  for  ary  meal; 
But  Casey  tended  strictly  to  his  biz,  'nd  let  'em  squeal; 

43 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

And  presently  the  boardin'-houses  all  began  to  bust, 
While  Casey  kept  on  sawin'  wood  'nd  layiu'  in  the  dust; 
And  oncet  a  trav'lin'  editor  from  Denver  City  wrote 
A  piece  back  to  his  paper,  puffin'  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

A  tabble  dote  is  different  from  orderiu'  aller  cart: 

In  one  case  you  git  all  there  is,  in  father,  only  part ! 

And  Casey's  tabble  dote  began  in  French— as  all  begin, — 

And  Casey's  ended  with  the  same,  which  is  to  say,  with  "viu;" 

But  in  between  wuz  every  kind  of  reptile,  bird,  'nd  beast, 

The  same  like  you  can  git  in  high-toned  restauraws  down  east; 

'Nd  windin'  up  wuz  cake  or  pie,  with  coffee  demy  tass, 

Or,  sometimes,  floatin'  Ireland  in  a  soothin'  kind  of  sass 

That  left  a  sort  of  pleasant  ticklin'  in  a  feller's  throat, 

'Nd  made  him  hanker  after  more  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

The  very  recollection  of  them  puddin's  'nd  them  pies 

Brings  a  yearnin'  to  my  buzzum  'nd  the  water  to  my  eyes; 

'Nd  seems  like  cookin'  nowadays  aint  what  it  used  to  be 

In  camp  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain  in  that  year  of  '63; 

But,  maybe,  it  is  better,  'nd,  maybe,  I'm  to  blame— 

I'd  like  to  be  a  livin'  in  the  mountains  jest  the  same — 

I'd  like  to  live  that  life  again  when  skies  wuz  fair  'nd  blue. 

When  things  wuz  run  wide  open  'nd  men  wuz  brave  'nd  true; 

When  brawny  arms  the  flinty  ribs  of  Red  Hoss  Mountain  smote 

For  wherewithal  to  pay  the  price  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 

And  you,  O  cherished  brother,  a-sleepin'  way  out  west, 
With  Red  Hoss  Mountain  huggin'  you  close  to  its  lovin'  breast, — 
Oh,  do  you  dream  in  your  last  sleep  of  how  we  use  to  do, 
Of  how  we  worked  our  little  claims  together,  me  'nd  you? 

44 


EUGENE   FIELD. 

Why,  when  I  saw  you  last  a  smile  wuz  restin'  on  your  face, 
Like  you  wuz  glad  to  sleep  forever  in  that  lonely  place; 
And  so  you  wuz,  'nd  I'd  be,  too,  if  I  wuz  sleepin'  so. 
But,  bein'  how  a  brother's  love  aint  for,  the  world  to  know, 
Whenever  I've  this  heartache  'nd  this  chokin'  in  my  throat, 
I  lay  it  all  to  thiukin'  of  Casey's  tabble  dote. 


LITTLE   BOY   BLUE. 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  Avith  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  \vas  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair, 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"And  don't  you  make  any  noise  !" 
So  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys. 
And  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 
Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue,— 
Oh,  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true. 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The   smile   of  a  little  face. 


45 


EVE.\/.\GS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  these  long  years  through, 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


THE  WANDERER. 

Upon  a  mountain  height,  far  from  the  sea, 

I  found  a  shell, 

And  to  my  listening  ear  the  lonely  thing 
Ever  a  song  of  ocean  seemed  to  sing, 

Ever  a  tale  of  ocean  seemed  to  tell. 

How  came  the  shell  upon  that  mountain  height? 

Ah,  who  can  say 

Whether  there  dropped  by  some  too  careless  hand, 
Or  whether  there  cast  when  Ocean  swept  the  Land, 

Ere  the  Eternal  had  ordained  the  Day? 

Strange,  was  it  not?    Far  from  its  native  deep, 

One  song  it  sang — 

Sang  of  the  awful  mysteries  of  the  tide, 
Sang  of  the  misty  sea.  profound  and  wide — 

Ever  with  echoes  of  the  ocean  rang. 

And  as  the  shell  upon  the  mountain  height 
Sings  of  the  sea, 

So  do  I  ever,  leagues  and  leagues  away — 

So  do  I  ever,  wandering  where  I  may- 
Sing,  O  my  home!    sing,  O  my  home!   of  thee. 

46 


EUGENE    FIELD. 


MARTHY'S  YOUNKIT. 


The  mountain  brook  sung  lonesomelike,  and  loitered  on  its  way 
Ez  if  it  waited  for  a  child  to  jine  it  in  its  play; 
The  wild-flowers  uv  the  hillside  bent  down  their  heads  to  hear 
The  music  uv  the  little  feet  that  had  somehow  grown  so  dear; 
The  magpies,  like  winged  shadders,  wuz  a-flutterin'  to  an'  fro 
Among  the  rocks  an'  holler  stumps  in  the  ragged  gulch  below; 
The  pines  an'  hemlocks  tosst  their  boughs  (like  they  wuz  arms) 

and  made 

Soft,  solluni  music  on  the  slope  where  he  had  often  played; 
But  for  these  lonesome,  sollum  voices  on  the  mountain-side, 
There  wuz  no  sound  the  summer  day  that  Marthy's  Youiikit  died. 

We  called  him  Marthy's  Younkit,  for  Marthy  wuz  the  name 
Uv  her  ez  wuz  his  mar,  the  wife  uv  Sorry  Tom— the  same 
Ez  taught  the  school-house  on  the  hill,  way  back  in  '69, 
When  she  marr'd  Sorry  Tom,   wich  owned  the  Gosh-all-Hem- 

lock  mine! 

And  Marthy's  Younkit  wuz  their  first,  wich,  being   how  it  meant 
The  first  on  Red  Hoss  Mountain,  wuz  truly  a  event  ! 
The  miners  sawed  off  short  on  work  ez  soon  ez  they  got  word 
That  Dock  Devine  allowed  to  Casey  what  has  just  occurred; 
We  loaded  up  an'  whooped  aroun  until  we  all  wuz  hoarse 
Salutin'  the  arrival,  which  weighed  ten  pounds,  uv  course  ! 

Three  years,  and  seen  a  pretty  child!— his  mother's  counterpart! 
Three  years,  and  sech  a  holt  ez  he  had  got  on  every  heart! 
A  peert  an'  likely  little  tyke  with  hair  ez  red  ez  gold, 
A  laughin',  toddlin'  everywhere — 'nd  only  three  years  old! 

47 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Up  yonder,  sometimes,  to  the  store,  an'  sometimes  down  the  hill 
He  kited  (boys  is  boys,  you  know— you  couldn't  keep  him  still!) 
An'    there    he'd    play    beside    the    brook    where    purpul    wild- 
flowers  grew, 

An'  the  mountain  pines  an'  hemlocks  a  kindly  shadder  threw, 
An'  sung  soft,  sollum  toons  to  him,  while  in  the  gulch  below 
The  magpies,  like  strange  sperrits,  went  flutterin'  to  an'  fro. 


Three     years,     an'     then     the     fever     come — it     wuzn't     right, 

you  know, 

With  all  us  old  ones  in  the  camp,  for  that  little  child  to  go; 
It's  right  the  old  should  die,  but  that  a  harmless  little  child 
Should  miss  the  joy  uv  life  an'  love — that  can't  be  reconciled! 
That's  what  we  thought  that  summer  day,   an'   that  is   what 

we  said 

Kz  we  looned  upon  the  piteous  face  uv  Marthy's  Younkit  dead. 
But  for  his  mother's  sobbin',  the  house  wuz  very  still, 
An'  Sorry  Tom  wuz  lookin',  through  the  winder,  down  the  hill, 
To   the  patch   beneath   the   hemlocks   where   his   darlin'   used 

to  play, 
An'    the    mountain    brook    sung    lonesomellke    an'    loitered    on 

its  way. 


A  preacher  come  from  Roarin'  Crick  to  comfort  'em  an'  pray, 
*Nd  all  the  camp  wuz  present  at  the  obsequies  next  day; 
A  female  teacher  staged  it  twenty  miles  to  sing  a  hymn, 
An'  we  jined  in  the  chorus— big,  husky  men  an*  grim 
Sung  "Jesus.  Lover  uv  my  Soul,"  an'  then  the  preacher  prayed, 
An'  preacht  a  sermon  on  the  death  uv  that  fair  blossom  laid 

48 


EUGENE    FIELD. 

Among   them    other    flowers   he   loved — wich    sermon    set   sech 

weight 

On  sinners  bein'  always  heeled  against  the  future  state, 
That,  though  it  had  been  fashionable  to  swear  a  perfec'  streak, 
There  warnt  no  sweariu'  in  the  camp  for  pretty  nigh  a  week  ! 


Last  thing  uv  all,  four  strappin'  men  took  up  the  little  load 

An'  bore  it  tenderly  along  the  windin',  rocky  road, 

To  where  the  coroner  had  dug  a  grave  beside  the  brook, 

In  sight  uv  Marthy's  winder,  where  the  same  could  set  an'  look 

An'  wonder  if  his  cradle  in  that  green  patch,  long  an'  wide, 

Wuz  ez  soothin'  ez  the  cradle  that  wuz  empty  at  her  side; 

An'  wonder  if  the  mournful  songs  the  pines  wuz  singin'  then 

Wuz  ez  tender  ez  the  lullabies  she'd  never  sing  again, 

'Nd  if  the  bosom  uv  the  earth  in  wich  he  lay  at  rest 

Wuz  half  ez  lovin'  'nd  ez  warm  ez  wuz  his  mother's  breast. 


The  camp  is  gone;  but  Red  Hoss  Mountain  rears  its  kindly  head, 
An'  looks  down,  sort  uv  tenderly,  upon  its  cherished  dead; 
'Nd  I  reckon-that,  through  all  the  years,  that  little  boy  wich  died 
Sleeps  sweetly  an'  contentedly  upon  the  mountain-side; 
That  the   wild-flowers  uv   the  summer-time  bend   down   their 

heads  to  hear 

The  footfall  uv  a  little  friend  they  know  not  slumbers  near; 
That  the  magpies  on  the  sollum  rocks  strange  flutterin'  shad- 

ders  make, 

An'  the  pines  an'  hemlocks  wonder  that  the  sleeper  doesn't  wake; 
That   the   mountain    ^rook    sings   lonesomelike   an'    loiters    on 

Its  way 
Ez  if  it  waited  for  a  child  to  jiiie  it  in  its  play. 

49 


Warman. 


1     WALK     ALONE. 


Who  sent  you  here?   Just  when  uiy  heart  was  torn 
And  tortured  by  love's  latest  agony; 

When  to  myself  I  solemnly  had  sworn 

To  walk  life's  ways  alone,  you  come  to  me, 


With  those  big  eyes,  mysterious  and  strange, 

And  sweet  sad  face  as  solemn  as  the  grave; 
What  I  had  thought  the  end  was  but  a  change- 
Again  I  find  myself  a  woman's  slave. 


Please  do  not  frown— don't  take  away  those  eyes, 
Whose  lightest  look  seems  to  intoxicate. 

Must  leave  me  now?    Yes,  yes,  the  hour  flies; 

But  thou  hast  brought  me  nearer  heaven's  gate. 


Thy  gentle  hand— thy  loving  hand,  has  led 

Me  from  the  shores  of  sin.    From  stone  to  stone 

Has  taught  my  faltering  feet  to  tread 

The  path  that  leads  to  peace — I  walk  alone. 

So 


CY.   WARMAN. 


CY    WARM  AN. 

BE    NEAK    ME. 

Be  near  me,  dearest,  till  my  task  is  done, 
This  picture  must  be  best  I've  ever  made. 

How  can  you  help?  you  ask.    Ah,  little  one, 
Without  your  eyes  to  look  at  could  I  shade 

The  eyes  on  this  canvas  I've  begun1? 

Be  near  me,  dearest,  till  my  task  is  done. 

.Looks  like — you  say — like  some  one  you  have  seen? 

Impossible;   that  never  can  be  true. 
This  painting  is  a  portrait  of  my  queen, 

Whose  face  you  could  not  see  as  I  see  you; 
And  all  the  world  has  like  it  only  one. 
Be  near  me,  dearest,  till  my  task  is  done. 


THE  WAY  WE  WALKED. 

I  met  a  woman  on  life's  way, 

A  woman  fair  to  see, 
Or  caught  up  with  her,  I  should  say, 

Or  she  caught  up  with  me. 
"The  way  is  long  when  one's  alone," 

I  said,  "and  dangerous,  too; 
I'll  help  you  by  each  stumbling  stone, 

If  I  may  walk  with  you." 

I  saw  her  hang  her  head  and  blush, 

And  I  could  plainly  see 
The  fire  that  caused  the  fevered  flush. 

I  whispered:   "Walk  with  me. 

51 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Thou  art  of  all  the  very  maid 
A  brave  heart  wants  to  woo, 

And  I'll  remember  long,"  I  said, 
"The  way  I  walk  with  you." 

Then  on  we  went.     Her  laughing  eyes 

And  sunny  smiles  were  sweet 
Above  us  blue  and  burnished  skies, 

And  roses  'neath  our  feet. 
"I'm  glad  your  sunny  face  I've  seen," 

I  said,  "When  life  is  through, 
I'll  own  the  best  of  it  has  been 

The  wajr  I  walked  with  you." 

And  on  we  went;    we  watched  the  day 

Into  the  darkness  merge; 
My  fair  companion  paused  to  say, 

"Here's  where  our  paths  diverge." 
I  answered:  "Yes,  and  one  more  mile 

Is  fading  from  our  view, 
And  all  the  while  lit  by  your  smile 

This  way  I've  walked  with  you. 

"I  do  not  say  my  love,  my  life, 

Will  all  be  given  to  grief 
When  you  are  gone;  the  ceaseless  strife 

Will  bring  me  much  relief. 
When  death's  cold  hand  the  curtain  draws, 

When  life's  long  journey's  through, 
'Twill  not  have  all  been  bad,  because 

I  came  part  way  with  you." 

52 


CY    IV ARM  AN. 


NEARER    MY    GOD    AND    THEE. 


Go  make  your  mark  far  above  me, 

Near  the  top  of  the  temple  of  fame; 
Say  you'll  endeavor  to  love  me, 

When  there  I  have  written  my  name. 
Think  not  of  the  hearts  that  have  fainted 

While  striving  for  what  I  would  be; 
For  I  shall  be  better  for  striving, 

And  nearer  my  God,  and  thee. 


No  burden  could  be  too  heavy, 

No  task  ever  seem  too  great; 
No  journey  too  long  or  too  lonely, 

No  hour  too  early  or  late; 
For  my  matchless  love  would  be  thriving 

On  the  hope  of  the  bliss  to  be, 
And  I  should  be  better  for  striving, 

And  nearer  my  God,  and  thee. 


All  the  long  way  from  noontime  till  midnight, 

And  back  from  the  midnight  till  noon, 
By  the  bright  light  of  love  I'd  be  toiling, 

And  hoping  the  end  would  be  soon. 
And  when  time  of  hope  had  bereft  me, 

Tossed  wildly  on  life's  troubled  sea, 
I  should  know  that  the  struggle  had  left  me 

Still  nearer  my  God,  and  thee. 

53 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


THE    FLIGHT    OF    THE    FLYER. 


Near  where  the  hill-girt  Hudsoii  lay, 
Down  the  steel  track  the  engineer 

Reined  his  swift  steed  at  close  of  day, 
As,  leaping  like  a  frightened  deer, 

At  each  wild  surge  she  seemed  to  say: 

Away  !    Away  !    Away  !    Away  ! 

The  slow  team  toiling  up  the  hill, 

The  light  boat  drifting  with  the  breeze, 

The  swiftest  trains  seemed  standing  still. 
Red  vines  were  twining  round  the  trees, 

Whose  leaves  made  golden  by  the  frost 

Gained  more  of  lustre  than  they  lost. 

The  trackman  tamping  up  the  rail, 
Felt  the  perfume  of  dying  flowers; 

The  shadows  lengthened  in  the  vale; 

And  watchmen  watched  from  out  the  towers 

The  little  cloud  of  dust  behind, 

As  we  went  whistling  down  the  wind. 

Night's  curtain  falls;   and  here  and  there 
The  housewife  lights  the  evening  lamp; 

And  where  the  fields  are  cold  and  bare 
His  fire  Is  kindled  by  the  tramp. 

Down  through  the  midnight,  dark  and  deep. 

The  world  goes  by  us,  fast  asleep. 

54 


CY    WARM  AN. 

Up  through  the  morning,  on  and  on  ! 

The  red  sun  rising  from  the  sea, 
As  we  go  quivering  through  the  dawn, 

Lights  up  the  earth,  reveals  to  me 
In  the  first  ruddy  flush  of  morn, 
The  golden  pumpkins  in  the  corn. 

From  east  to  west,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  black  steed  tramples  through  the  night, 

And  with  a  mighty  rush  and  roar 

Breaks  through  the  dawn;   and  in  their  flight, 

Wild  birds,  bewildered  by  the  train, 

Dash  dead  against  the  window  pane. 

"Be  swift,"  I  cried,  "Oh,  matchless  steed, 
The  world  is  watching,  do  your  best  !" 

With  quick  and  ever  quickening  speed, 
The  hot  fire  burning  in  her  breast, 

With  flowing  mane  and  proud  neck  bent, 

She  laughed  across  the  Continent. 


6s—' 


55 


Silvester  pafcen. 


"MY  BOY." 

They  will  crown  thee  with  white  lilies, 

They  will  bind  them  round  thy  brow; 
To  thy  noble,  fearless  spirit 

All  in  fear  and  love  shall  bow. 
They  will  crown  thee  with  white  lilies, 

Pure  as  thine  own  boyish  heart; 
Thou  wilt  ne'er  know  pain  or  sorrow; 

Thou  and  they  be  far  apart 

They  will  crown  thee  with  the  laurel. 

In  the  lofty  paths  of  fame, 
Wisdom's  seven-pillared  temple. 

Proudest,  noblest  be  thy  name. 
And  the  hearts  of  men  shall  tremble 

As  tho'  pierced  with  sharpest  lance, 
When  thou  read'st  their  hidden  secrets 

With  thy  deep  eyes'  searching  glance. 

They  will  place  the  classic  bay  wreath 

On  thy  noble  brow,  my  boy; 
Thou  wilt  move  god-like  among  them, 

Thou  wilt  be  thy  Nation's  joy. 
And  these  tokens  of  thy  victories 

Thou  wilt  bring  them  all  to  me, 
And  will  kneeling  say,  "My  Mother, 

I  have  won  all  these  for  thee." 

56 


MARY   SYLVESTER    PA  DEN. 

But  they  crowned  him  with  the  cypress, 

Laid  the  myrtle  on  his  breast, 
And  they  shut  him  from  the  sunshine, 

Ever  more  to  be  at  rest. 
Yet  I  hear  the  lingering  music 

Of  his  voice  when  soft  winds  sigh, 
And  it  seems  he  still  is  with  me — 

O,  I  dreamed  not  he  could  die  ! 

And  I  cry  in  bitter  anguish, 

"Oh,  forsake  me  not,  my  God!" 
But  He  answers,  '''Child,  I  love  thee, 

Thou  must  pass  beneath  the  rod." 
Vain  my  wild  dreams  of  ambition, 

Faded  every  earthly  joy, 
And  I  only  wait  the  summons 

That  will  call  me  to  my  boy. 


MARIE. 

Poor,  patient,  plodding,  plain  Marie — 
An  humbler  soul  you  might  not  see, 
Praying,  "Thy  will  be  done  to  me," 

As  hungry  child  who  wept  and  said: 
"Oh  give  me,  Father,  daily  bread," 
And  toiled  for  it,  yet  went  unfed; 

As  maid  whose  starved  heart  pining  lay, 
For  love  the  careless  threw  away, 
Yet  lived  unloved  her  dreary  day; 

57 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

As  woman  murmuring  falteringly— 
"If  'tis  Thy  will— O,  rest,  with  thee. 
Death  would  be  very  sweet  to  me." 


And  when  at  last  she  was  to  die, 

Look  you— a  tardy  joy  crept  nigh. 

"Thy  will,"  she  prayed,  "let  death  pass  by." 


Too  late  !    Her  little  chance  was  past; 

Still  prayed  she,  with  meek  eyes  downcast— 

"Thy  will.   O,  give  me  heaven  at  last" 


She  was  so  poor,  scant  prayers  were  sped, 
Scant  rite,  scant  grave  for  pauper  dead, 
"The  end  of  old  Marie,"  they  said. 


The  end?   Nay,  but  it  could  not  be  ! 
'Twould  never  solve  for  you  and  me 
Half  of  this  sad  world's  mystery. 


Did  all  the  shining  saints  that  stand 
In  heaven  take  her  by  the  hand 
And  place  her  highest  in  their  band? 


Did  gentle  Christ  come  grandly  down 
Her  life-long  woes  in  bliss  to  drown, 
And  crown  her  with  a  chosen  crown? 


MARY  SYLVESTER    PA  DEN. 

I  know  not,  nay,  nor  did  she  pray 
For  this,  but  patiently,  each  day, 
"Thy  will  in  life  and  death  alway." 

Less  are  my  sorrows,  blest  Marie; 
Thrice  poor  as  thou  I  needs  must  be 
Till  I  can  pray  and  trust  like  thee. 


DUSK    IN    THE    DESERT. 


The  wind  of  the  Desert  is  calling  me. 
Oho,  for  a  comrade  so  wild  and  free; 
I  would  that  my  laggard  feet  might  fly 
As  the  scurrying  clouds  in  the  darkening  sky 
To  the  wide,  brown  spaces  that  stretch  afar, 
Unmarred  by  a  trodden  roadway's  scar; 
Unsmirched  by  the  smoke  from  labor's  den, 
And  the  struggling  breath  of  toil-strangled  men; 
With  their  silence  deep  as  the  calm  of  death, 
Save  for  racing  winds'  exultant  breath. 

I  drink,  O  Desert,  this  breath  of  thine, 

As  an  eager  Sybarite  quaffs  his  wine; 

And  I  lift  my  weary  lids  to  gaze, 

Wide-eyed  and  glad,  o'er  thy  boundless  ways, 

To  where  I  can  step  from  thine  utmost  rim 

Into  the  skylands,  gray  and  dim; 

59 


EVENINGS   ll'ITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Man's  dull  old  world,  more  dim  and  gray, 
Fading  behind  me  far  away. 
Thought  and  trouble  and  care  fade,  too; 
I  live,  O  Desert  and  Wind,  with  you. 

Oh,  follow,  follow,  and  ne'er  turn  back 
On  .a  trail  that  winds  as  a  serpent's  track, 
Where  the  dry  brown  grasses  rustle  and  break 
With  the  subtle  z-z  of  the  rattlesnake, 
But  the  yellow  curls  of  the  gramma  there 
Wave  like  the  rings  of  a  lost  love's  hair. 

Whirling  along  in  goblin  glee. 

A  gray-polled  tumble-weed  challenges  me; 

I  follow  its  gnomelike  lead  to  where 

The  cactus  offers  its  dull-red  pear, 

That  gives  me  thought  of  a  chalice  grim, 

Filled  with  blood  to  its  thorny  rim; 

Of  the  Desert's  vanished  sons?   Who  knows? 

Of  trespassers  in  her  sacred  close, 

Who  marked  with  their  whitening  bones,  the  curse 

That  Nature's  heart  against  man  doth  nurse? 

O  thou  Sphinx  Desert,  if  savage  dearth 

Of  softer  graces  mark  lowly  birth, 

What  of  thy  silence  proud,  serene 

As  the  mocking  calm  of  a  musing  queen? 

Death  to  thy  serfs  or  life,  what  then? 

Long  may  they  sue  thee,  gods  or  men  ! 

Lo,  where  they  stepped  are  their  hidden  graves  ! 

Ix>,  where  they  dwelt,  the  dry  grass  waves 

60 


MARY  SYLVESTER    PA  DEN. 

With  a  rustle  of  laughter,  scarce  a  sigh, 
E'en  when  the  soft  south  wind  steals  by. 
Hark  !   Cry  of  the  coyote,  or  craven  world 
Out  of  our  fearless  kingdom  whirled? 
As  low  on  the  Desert  the  gray  night  lies, 
And  the  light  of  the  love  in  my  collie's  eyes 
Is  all  that  may  guide  me  back  again 
To  the  grinding,  groaning  world  of  men. 


A  vision  goes  with  me,  O  friends  of  mine, 

O  restful  Desert  and  wind  like  wine. 

Of  the  stealthy  hosts  of  gathering  snow 

On  the  gray  cloud-deserts  lying  low, 

Till  the  blasts  that  blow  east,  west  and  north 

Shall  sound  the  whistling  signal  forth 

For  the  silent,  swift  advance.    Oho  ! 

To  be  compassed  round  by  the  whirling  snow, 

With  the  world  and  the  sky  and  the  desert  gone, 

To  move  in  a  white  dream  on  and  on, 

Till  straggling's  bravado,  and  yielding,  love 

For  the  soft,  white  foes  from  the  plains  above. 

A  draught  of  their  blessed  anodyne, 

And  the  pain  of  their  death-thrust  is  peace  benign. 


Life  and  death  in  a  circle  fly. 
Hot  suns  whiten  and  parched  winds  dry; 
And  lo  !    Once  more  is  the  human  clod 
Quick  with  the  life  of  the  desert  sod. 

61 


El'E.\i.VGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


THE    UNIVERSAL    PRAYER. 


"Lead  me  from  the  fleeting  into  the  everlasting,  from  darkness  in  light, 
from  death  into  immortality."— -Jnankanda  of  the  Hindu  Shastras. 


Comes  the  same  cry  from  where  gray  Himalay 
Leans  thoughtful  o'er  the  earliest  nation's  grave. 
As  from  the  land  the  utmost  sunsets  lave? 

The  soul's  own  language,  be  the  tongue  what  may'.' 

O  this  indeed  the  prayer  the  world  might  pray, 
The  prayer  that  surges  up  in  one  wild  wave 
From  heart  of  heathen,  Christian,  king  or  slave, 

Intensest  longing,  deepest  hope  each  day 

Of  this  sad  life  roots  deeper  in  each  heart  ! 

O  men,  in  union  strong,  stand  not  apart. 

Crowd  not  like  sheep  within  your  small  creed-fold, 

Nor  make  it  breast-work  betwixt  brothers'  strife. 
Together,  the  one  grand  way  seek  and  hold 

From  darkness  into  light,  from  death  to  life. 


LOT'S    WIFE. 

The  woe  of  woman's  life  in  four  small  words: 
"And   she  looked   back." 

Poor  soul ! 

I  see  her  heed  the  warning.     Lo  !   she  girds 
Her  for  the  journey  straightway,  first  to  obey. 
I  note  her  patient  care,  as  for  the  way 

62 


MARY   SYLVESTER   PA  DEN. 

Of  travel  she  prepares  the  unthinking  men 
And  the  weak  children.     Bravely  tries  she  then 
The  strange  new  track, 
New  goal  ! 

The  path  lies  straight  before  them.    Men  of  God 

Promise  new  lands, 

New  lives. 

Light  steps  the  foot  with  goodly  promise  shod  ! 
The  eager  men  look  forward;   gay  and  glad, 
The  children  bound  along;   she,  only,  sad 
At  thought  of  the  old  home-nooks,  the  old  places 
That  echoed  these  dear  voices,  framed  these  faces, 

Where  ruin  stands 
And   strives. 

Poor,  yearning  woman-heart  !   One  glance  she  craved, 

And  she  "looked  back." 

Poor  soul  ! 

Though  from  the  weary  journey  surely  saved. 
"O  cruel  God  !    I  would  have  looked  back,  too  !" 
I  used  to  cry,  not  understanding.    True, 
Deep  wisdom  read  I  in  the  legend  now— 
When  change  commands  thee,  in  obedience  bow. 
Take  the  new  path  that  waits  thee.    Looking  back 
Upon  the  loss,  the  ruin  and  the  wrack, 
Dreading  the  changing  new,  availeth  naught, 
But  turns  thee,  frozen-hearted  and  o'erwrought, 
Into  a  statue  by  thy  life's  Dead  Sea; 
A  warning  unto  those  who  wiser  be, 
Who,  lost  the  old,  seek,  wiser  still,  the  new, 

And  ne'er  look  back. 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


AFTER    EASTER. 


I  have  arisen,  O  my  Christ, 

Christ  with  the  nail-scarred  hands  and  feet ! 
It  was  half  sorrowful,  rising  thus; 

Always  I  thought,  in  the  old  time  sweet, 
Resurrection  was  fair  and  new, 

Resurrection  was  strong  and  whole. 
Never,  I  know,  can  rise  with  me 

All  of  my  crucified  heart  and  soul. 

Yet  even  so.  I  have  risen.  Christ. 

Reading  thine  Easter  story  o'er, 
Listlessly,  hopelessly,  brokenly, 

Sudden  I  found  in  it  something  more 
Than  the  old  garish  joy  that  seems 

Blaze  of  sunlight  on  tear-worn  eyes, 
Mocking  glory  of  baseless  dreams, 

Fleeting  echo  of  song  that  dies. 

If  thou  had'st  risen  in  youth's  lost  grace, 

Or  in  thy  manhood's  promise-glory, 
Scarless  victor,  triumphant  king, 

Heart  would  havo  sighed:  "O  vain,  vague  story! 
Not  for  me— not  for  me  !"   But  to  see 

Print  of  the  nail  on  foot  and  hand. 
Spear-pierced  side  as  the  signs  that  be 

For  thy  disciples  to  understand  ! 

64 


MARY  SYLVESTER   PA  DEN. 

Rising  to  thy  few  chosen  ones 

Though  they  failed  thee  and  calmly  slept 
Through  thy  vigil;    though  they,  so  few, 

Room  for  denier  and  doubter  kept 
And  betrayer  !    O  courage,  heart ! 

This  is  no  miracle  far  away, 
Vague,  impossible.     This  is  part 

Of  the  stoiy  of  every  day. 

Easter  morning  hath  meaning  new. 

Every  morning  may  Easter  be, 
Ye  who  can  never  be  whole  again 

Rise  in  your  wounds  as  did  even  he  ! 


EYENLVGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


patience  Stapleton. 


TOLTEC    GORGE. 


Against  the  snows  of  cloud  hills  high, 
Majestic  mountains,  centuries  old, 

Reach  rugged  heights  far  up  the  sky, 
Like  Babel's  tower  in  story  old. 

The  winds  of  night  in  furious  rage 

Beat  'gainst  the  wall  'twixt  earth  and  heaven; 
Each  element  tireless  war  did  wage; 

Backward,  defeated  each  was  driven. 

The  warm  Chinook  o'er  the  prairie  sighed; 

The  north  wind  fled  to  frozen  seas; 
The  chill  east  wind  in  coast  fogs  died; 

The  avalanche  crashed  amid  the  trees. 

Furrowed  and  tortured,  in  silent  woe, 

One  mountain  bore  the  storms  of  ages, 

And  sun  of  summer  or  winter's  snow 
Left  no  trace  on  its  mystic  pages. 

But  a  drift  of  snow  that  lay  long  hidden 
In  creviced  niche  on  a  lean  peak's  crest, 

Wept  bitter  tears  that  crept  unchidden 

Far  down  the  mountain's  unyielding  breast. 

66 


PATIENCE    STAPLETON. 

The  river  down  in  the  valley  knew, 

For  the  stream  whispered  when  they  met— 

The  brook  and  river — and,  laughing,  too, 
The  hills  had  never  a  thought  as  yet. 

In  years  the  mountain's  heart  of  rock 
Yields  to  the  subtle  brook,  and  fast, 

With  thunder  peal  and  earthquake  shock, 
Crashed  chasm  open— defeat  at  last. 

Centuries  pass.    The  deep  drifted  snows 

Fade  'neath  summers  suns,  and  the  stream 

Widens  the  gorge,  and  misty  breath  throws 
High  up  black  walls  that  silvery  gleam. 

But  a  web  is  cast  of  iron  strong, 

Like  a  spider's  home  of  thread-like  coil. 

The  brook  is  tamed,  and  its  echoing  song 
Praises  the  power  of  human  toil. 


SIERRA   BLANCA. 


North  star  o'er  seas  of  land, 
Mountain,  serene  and  grand, 
Sentinel  of  the  Rockies  stand, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
Dial  of  recorded  time 
Reared  in  solitude  sublime. 

67 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Poets,  'raptured,   long  have  told 
Of  the  crown  of  sunset  gold 
Resting  on  thy  crest  so  old, 

Sierra  Blauca; 
In  all  this  land  is  given 
Thee  to  be  nighest  Heaven. 

Vision  to  the  artist  rare 

Is  the  purple  robe  so  fair 

Thou  with  kingly  grace  doth  wear, 

Sierra  Blauca; 

And  thy  velvet  pall  of  night, 
Crown  stars  deck  with  jewels  bright. 

Once  the  waves  of  oceans  past- 
Silver  waves  rolling  fast- 
Sunny  spray  o'er  thee  cast, 

Sierra  Blanca; 

Forests  green  crept  up  thy  side, 
Followed  close  the  ebbing  tide. 

In  the  light  of  that  far  day 

What  strange  races,  who  shall  say, 

Lived  their  lives  and  went  their  way? 

Sierra  Blanca; 

What  strange  monsters  of  the  deep 
Went  to  dust  in  death's  last  sleep? 

Ere  that  exile  on  him  fell 
Once  the  Indian  loved  him  well, 
Happy  in  thy  shades  to  dwell, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
Now  the  wolf  in  hiddeu  lair 
Unmolested  scents  the  air. 

68 


PATIENCE    STAPLETON. 

Once  the  Spanish  cavalier 
Held  thee  in  his  heart  so  dear, 
Half  in  love,  half  in  fear, 

Sierra  Blanca; 

Martyr  priests  might  happy  sigh 
At  thy  glorious  feet  to  die. 

Over  all  the  green  plains  wide 
Peace  and  joy  do  now  abide, 
Happy  homes  below  thee  hide, 

Sierra  Blanca; 
High  uplifted  childish  eyes 
Liken  thee  to  Paradise. 


69 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


IRobert 


SASSAFRAS. 

Faint  as  the  sighing  winds  which  fret 
With  sweet  and  subtle  harmonies 
The  silken  strands  aeolian,  set 
In  mullious  old,  come  memories 

That  thrill,  and  pass, 
Of  thy  wild  bole  which  warder  stood 
Of  bygone  bournes.    Our  sandal  wood, 
Slim  sassafras. 

Like  that  green  tree  of  life  thou  sprang 

From  out  the  turf  of  Paradise. 
The  heaven  of  boyhood,  but  thy  tang 
Of  bark  and  root  among  the  wise 

Tall  trees,  alas  ! 
With  leafy  laughter  did  infect 
The  woods  at  thy  quaint  dialect. 
Rude  sassafras. 

Thy  spicy  root  had  blessings  great 
The  blood  to  purge  and  purify. 
But  now,  O  homely  Hippocrate, 
My  mind  hath  medicine,  for  I 

Feel  all  the  crass 
And  evil  humors  of  my  soul 
Cast  off,  and  thou  hast  made  me  whole, 
Rare  sassafras. 


70 


ROBERT   McINTYRE 

If  some  blest  day  when  I  shall  rove 
By  God's  great  river,  all  alone. 
Thy  breath  from  out  heaven's  healing  grove 
O'er  amaranth  hills  is  softly  blown 

Across  the  grass, 

The  tears  that  blur  my  sight  shall  be 
Love's  tribute  then  to  youth  and  thee, 
O  sassafras. 


THE    OLD    TRAIL. 

I. 

Through  columns   of   cedars  begirt  with  ferns, 

Over  peaks  where  the  pinons  climb  together 
In  the  crimson  glow,  where  the  sunset  burn? 

And  the  purple  fringe  of  mountain  heather, 
Where  the  otter's  pelt,  in  the  emerald  pool, 

'Mid  dancing  foam  bells  dives  and  glistens, 
And  the  ousel  flutes  in  the  aspens  cool, 

Where  the  dappled  doe  affrighted  listens 
When  she  hears  our  hoof-beats,  far  away, 
Runs  the  famed  old  trail  of  the  Santa  Fe. 


II. 


I  see  thee  stretching  toward  the  sky, 

And  I  crack  my  whip  o'er  the  weary  cattle. 

And  hear  my  partners  shout  "Good  bye  !" 
As  they  went  down  in  the  Indian  battle, 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Struck  thro'  by  the  red  Apaches'  spears. 

In  clumps  of  cactus  they  now  ure  sleeping, 
Strewn  with  the  skeletons  of  their  steers, 

V.'hile  a  rattlesnake  in  the  white  ribs  creeping 
Makes  a  gruesome  epitaph,  Mate  !— I  say. 

For  a  freighter  who  fought  on  the  "Santa  Fe." 


III. 


Those  pioneer  pathfinders  were  clear  grit, 

And  I  reckon  their  women  were  even  stanncher 
Of  soul,  when  you  come  to  cipher  it — 

You  mind  that  home  of  the  murdered  rancher? 
In  the  crumbling  corner  the  rifle  stands, 

With  a  rotten  strap  and  a  rusty  buckle, 
But  where  is  the  wife,  whose  loving  hands 

Trained  over  the  porch  that  honeysuckle? 
And  where  the  children  who  used  to  play 
'Neath  its  scented  shade,  on  the  Santa   Fe? 


IV. 


You  can  never  forget  the  ford,  I  know. 

That  wagon  corral  and  the  log-fires  in  it, 
"Old  Baldy,"  lifting  his  brow  of  snow, 

As  white  as  my  foolish  head  this  minute. 
Oh,  the  yarns  we  spun,  the  songs  we  sung, 

Of  "Home,  Sweet  Home."  and  "Blue  Juniata  !' 

72 


ROBERT   MclNTYRE. 


ROBERT    McINTYRE. 

,  While  up  in  the  pines  the  new  moon  hung; 

And— pshaw  !    old  partner,  what's  the  matter? 
Does  it  hurt  you  now,  when  your  hair  is  grey, 
What  she  said  that  night  on  the  Santa  Fe? 


V. 


Well,  he  went  down  at  your  elbow,  Dave, 

In  that  midnight  melee,  across  the   carry. 
You  helped  us  heap  up  the  lonely  grave, 

In  the  cottonwood  grove,  over  handsome  Harry. 
We  found  him  dead  underneath  his  steed, 

With  his  empty  sixes  and  stained  serape, 
Just  as  he  fell  when  the  mad  stampede 

Flung  far  from  him  these  two  unhappy 
Old  chums,  who  tell  of  that  red  affray 
With  tears  as  they  think  of  the  Santa  Fe. 


VI. 


Gone— stirrup,  riata  and  rowel  and  bell  ! 

The  bellowing  herd,  in  its  wild  commotion, 
The  breathless  rush  from  the  chapparel, 

Over  the  sweep  of  that  grassy  ocean. 
But  yet,  my  comrade,  that  road  is  etched 

On  the  flowery  prairie,  fresh  and  vernal; 
And,  dear  old  friend,  when  we  are  fetched 

By  death  beyond  the  range  eternal, 
We  will  climb  to  the  realms  of  endless  day, 
Up  the  dear  old  trail  of  the  Santa  Fe. 

73 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS 


HIS    SWEETHEART'S    THROAT. 


That  reminds  me  !    I  reckon  I  never  told 

This  cauip  how  "Wes"  won  a  medal  of  gold. 

I  can  hear  to-night  the  Chancellor  say, 

In  the  dear  old  school  down  Georgia  way, 

"Whoever"— these  beans  are  about  the  stuff, 

But  this  bull-beef  is  so  blamed  tough, 

The  gravy's  a  chore  to  chew  it— and 

This  coffee  is  hot  as  a  Texas  brand — 

"Whoever  is  first  on  the  final  vote 

Will  hang  his  prize  at  his  sweetheart's  throat." 

Men  !     I  kept  the  tally,  and  I  tell  you 
He  roped  that  crowd  as  clever,  and  threw 
It  as  clean  as  a  steer  that  hits  the  sky, 
In  just  two  minutes  from  stirrup  to  tie. 
I  can  see  in  this  crackling  mesquite  blaze 
The  scene  as  it  was  in  those  old  days; 
The  handsome  girls,  high  born  and  rich, 
Who  beamed  on  the  orators,  wondering  which 
Would  gain  the  glory,  and  then  devote 
His  prize  to  hang  at  his  sweetheart's  throat 

He's  no  stucco  saint;    he  can  bite  a  word 
Into  blazing  brimstone  when  his  herd 
Is  mavericked,  and  he  told  "Kid's"  breed 
That  whimpering  wolves  would  on  them  feed, 

74 


ROBERT   McINTYRE. 

If  they  lifted  his.     But  I  wish  you  all 
Had  seen  that  ancient  college  hall, 
With  fine  old  jewels  and  fine  new  frocks, 
And  the  boys  in  buckles,  and  bushy  locks, 
When  "Wes"  came  out  in  his  home-made  coat, 
To  win  the  prize  for  his  sweetheart's  throat. 


He  cleared  the  corral,  and  took  the  track, 
And  we  stood  up  and  shook  the  shack. 
With  shouts  for  "Wes"  with  his  curly  hair. 
And  his  eye  like  the  eye  of  a  Pinto  mare, 
For  fire,  and  as  slim  as  a  yucca  stem. 
Stars  !    how  he  turned  and  swept  at  them 
With  his  voice  as  sweet  as  the  tinkling  bell 
On   a  Taos  spur,   and  a  speech   that  fell 
Like  a  silver  riata,  coiled  to  tote 
Away  that  prize  for  his  sweetheart's  throat. 


He  pulled  all  the  picket-pins,  took  the  lead 
Of  that  beautiful  bunch  in  a  wild  stampede 
Up  the  coulee  of  heaven,  and  back  again. 
Well  !    I've  seen  women  weep,  and  men, 
But  I  say  now,  when  he  marched  down, 
To  his  mother  in  her  linsey  gown, 
Who  stood  there  waiting  for  his  kiss, 
And  took  her  thin  old  hands  in  his, 
We  cried,  and  cheered,  and  howled  to  note — 
He  hung  his  prize  at  his  sweetheart's  throat. 

75 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


"KNEE  DEEP." 

They  are  calling  "Knee  deep,  knee  deep,"  to-night  in  the 

marsh   below. 
Down   by  the  bank,   where  the   rank  sword   grasses  and 

calamus  grow. 
They  are  the  toilers  who  make  the  bells  for  the  winter 

sprites, 

And  keeping  time  to  a  rhyme,  they  work  thro'  the  sum 
mer  nights, 
And  up  from  the  swampy  forge,  the  sparks  of  the  fireflies 

rise. 
O'er  the  pool  where  wading  lilies,   make  love  thro'   half 

shut  eyes, 
To  the  whip-poor-will  who  scolds,  at  the  wide  eyed  fluffy 

owl 

While  the  night  hawk  shuffles  by,  a  monk  in  a  velvet  cowl, 
And  the  bat  weaves  inky  weft,  thro'  the  white  star  beams 

that  peep, 
Down  thro'  the  cypress  boughs,  where  the  frogs  all  sing 

"Knee  deep." 

'Tis  strange  this  chant  should  call,  an  elderly  man  like  me. 
Back  to  the  by-gone  years,  and  the  scenes  that  used  to  be, 
When  the  world  was  fenced  from  heaven,  by  one  rose 

hedge,  and  thro' 
This  bourne  the  blessed  angels  looked,  and  asphodel  odors 

blew. 

But  listening  to  the  lilt  of  the  singers  among  the  reeds, 
I  can  hear  the  kine  bells  tinkle  over  the  clover  meads,. 

76 


ROBERT   McINTYRE. 

And  see  the  storm  king  ride,  the  summer  clouds  in  state, 

With  his  chariot  whip  of  livid  flame,  and  thunder  bil 
lingsgate, 

And  I  watch  the  swollen  tide,  thro'  the  reeds  like  a  pan 
ther  creep 

Where  the  frighted  arnphibeans  cling  to  the  rushes,  and 
sing  "Knee  deep." 

"Knee  deep"  I  bend  in  the  rippled  brook,  with  buttercup 

drift   overblown. 
Like  gold  on  beauty's  billowy  breast,  its  sheen  half  hid, 

half  shown, 
"Knee  deep"  in  the  saffron  marigold  flowers,  which  prank 

the   meadows    fair, 
Like  a  troop  of  Saxon  children,  blue  eyed  and  with  yellow 

hair, 
"Knee  deep"  where  bubbles  of  clover  spring,  up  from  the 

summer    sea, 
Thick  as  bubbles  of  stars  that  bloom,   on  the  breast  of 

Eternity. 
"Knee  deep"  in  the  topaz  poplar  leaves,  I  rustle  toward  the 

place. 

Where  the  pert  and  upright  rabbit  sits,  washing  her  inno 
cent  face, 
Song  of  the  quivering  culms  and  osiers,  I  am  wading  again, 

in  truth, 
"Knee  deep"  in  the  stream  of  Memory,  which  flows  from 

the  land  of  Youth. 


77 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


ffannie  Sberricfe  Martell. 


SUTRO  HEIGHTS. 


Tamalpais  leans  o'er  thee  dreamily; 

Shadows  of  purple  clouds  nod, 
There,  where  the  old  ocean  mightily 

Sings  to  the  mountains  of  God. 
Up  from  the  East  and  its  dawning 

Rises  the  gold-eyed  day, 
Spreading  her  wings  like  the  summer 

Over  the  violet  bay. 

Flowers  rise  upward  like  spirit  dreams, 
Born  of  the  dust  at  thy  feet; 

Songs  from  the  far  wind  harps  heavenly 
Echo  the  sea-music  sweet. 

Oh,  that  the  hand  of  a  Sappho 

Here  on  these  lawns  might  trace 

Sonnets  to  make  thee  immortal- 
Touched  by  the  old  Greek  grace. 

Seaward,  the  Golden  Gate  tenderly 

Guardeth  the  Child-Queen  State; 
Sunward  the  noon-day  slips  mistily, 

Laden  with  golden-barred  freight. 

*  Near  Tamalpais,  one  of  the  mountains  which  guard  the  Golden  Gate. 

78 


FANNIE  SHERR1CK  WARDELL. 

There,  in  the  West  dies  the  sun-god, 

Shrouded  in  dun  and  gold- 
Cometh  the  night-queen  in  mourning, 

Stars  in  each  sable  fold. 

Dreaming,  the  heart  reaches  longingly 

Up  from  the  wind-beaten  sod, 
Unto  the  star-flowers,  blossoming, 

Pale  in  the  garden  of  God. 
Upward  the  hills  and  the  mountains 

Reach  in  the  solemn  night; 
Thrilling,  the  soul  follows  after, 

Hushed  in  its  trackless  flight. 

Tamalpais  leans  o'er  thee  dreamily; 

Shadows  of  purple  clouds  nod, 
There,  where  the  old  ocean  mightily 

Sings  to  the  mountains  of  God. 
Joy,  like  a  star,  leads  the  morning, 

Hope,  with  her  smile,  crowns  the  West; 
Peace  folds  her  white  wings,  forever, 

Here  in  this  Eden  to  rest. 

LOVE'S  RETROSPECT. 

The  violets  slept  on  my  breast,  sAveetheart, 

And  your  soft  eyes  held  their  hue; 
Violet  youth  with  its  budding  spring 
Was  touched  and  revealed  by  you  ! 
It  AAras  not  summer,  nor  was  there  snow, 
For  nothing  of  seasons  do  lovers  know. 
Dear,  I  was  all  women  and  you  all  men, 
And  Ave  lived  all  life  in  that  timeless  Then  ! 

79 


EYEN1NGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


SILENCE. 

Silence  is  the  mantle  of  each  star, 

Woven  on  the  mountain  heights  of  snow. 

Silence  is  the  mantle  of  our  woe, 
When  to  men  our  inmost  souls  we  bar, 
Standing  from  their  ways  apart  and  far. 

In  its  wordless  spell  pure  souls  atone. 
Voiceless,  at  their  Maker's  heavenly  throne, 
For  the  thoughts  that  holy  deeds  do  mar. 
God  is  Silence,  and  His  works  of  might, 

Wrought  in  silence  now  and  ever-more, 

Stand  within   the  soul's  white  gallery, 
Mutely  eloquent;    and   in  death's  -night, 

Carved,  we  see,  upon  His  temple  door, 

Silence  !    Symbol  of  Eternity. 


THE  BLACK  CANON. 

The  midday  sun,  in  this  deep  gorge, 

Resigns  his  old  time  splendor, 
His  palace  walls  of  dreamy  gold, 
The  rose-hues  warm  and  tender. 

The  cleft  is  dark  below, 
Where  foaming  flows  the  Sumbre  river; 
The  wild  winds  sigh  and  blossoms  shiver, 
And  violets  mist  ascending, 

Obscure  the  Orient  glow. 

80 


FANNIE  SHERRICK  WARDELL. 

O  !    rushing  river,  eruerald-hued, 

How  mad  them  art  and  fearless, 
No  frowning  gates,  though  granite  barred, 
Can  curb  thy  waters  peerless  ! 

The  silent  gods   of  stone 
Revoke  their  ancient  laws  of  might 
When  through  ihe  gorge,  with  wing-swift  flight, 
Thy  wind-tossed  waves  are  speeding, 
Each  moment  wilder  grown. 


The  faint  stars  shine  in  broad  midday 

Through  twilight  mists,  gold-rifted, 
Where  opal  streams  make  dizzy  leaps 
O'er  jasper  walls  blue-rifted. 
Below,  no  naiad's  dream. 
'Neath  dim  arcades,  through  sunless  deeps, 
The  nomad  river  lonely  leaps, 
Where  castled  crags  rise  skyward 

Like  watch-towers  o'er  the  stream. 


On  massive  cliff-walls  Nature's  hand 

Has  turned  time's  sun-worn  pages; 
In  faces  carved  and  figures  hewn 
We  trace  the  work  of  ages. 

The    gold-tipped    spires    sublime 
That  pierce  the  sky  like  shafts  of  light, 
But  mark  the  measureless,  heavenward  height 
Of  Nature's  own  cathedral, 

Whose  stern  High  Priest  is  Time. 

81 


EVEN/NGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

In  this  grand  temple,  aeons  old, 

Her  organ  notes  are  pealing; 
In  gold-flecked  arch  and  wave-worn  aisles 
The  flower-nuns  are  kneeling; 

Her  altars  echo  prayer, 
And  when  at  dusk  the  cold  moon  shines. 
Oh,  awful  are  the  far  white  shrines, 
From  earth  to  God  upreaching, 
Through  spirit-flooded  air. 


CHORDS. 


We  stand  like  children  on  the  shores 

Of  night's  illumined  sea; 
And  tho'  our  eyes  search  countless  orbs 

We  know  not  what  they  be. 
Our  thoughts  are  like  the  sounding  shells. 

We  gather  on  the  beach; 
They  symbol  tideless  mysteries, 

Beyond  our  ken  and  reach. 

And  yet  I  think  we  never  turn 

To  things  divinely  wrought, 
But  to  our  soul  there  ever  speeds 

Some  bright  immortal  thought; 
Some  truth  of  God's  eternal  love 

That  keeps  the  stars  in  place; 
That  we  may  know  the  soul  sleeps  not. 

But  treads  the  trackless  space. 

82 


FANNIE  SHERRICK  WARDELL. 


GOLDEN-ROD. 


Beautiful  golden-rod  ! 

Up  from  the  half-burned  sod, 
When  the  August  fires  have  died  away 
You  rise,  gold-tipped  like  the  sun's  last  ray, 
Born  of  the  summer's  after-glow, 
Reaching  heaven,  though  prisoned  below: 

Beautiful  golden-rod  ! 


Fire-kissed  golden-rod  ! 

There,  where  the  grasses  nod, 
Waving  their  yellow  plumes  of  death, 
Touched  by  the  frost-king's  keen,  swift  breath, 
Your  slender  spires  of  reddened  gold 
Like  the  meadows  grown  brown  and  cold: 

Fire-kissed  golden-rod. 


"Lo  !   pass  under  the  rod  !" 
Soft-spoken  words  of  God. 
One  by  one  through  the  long-life  day 
Strewing  with  tears  the  grief-grown  way- 
God's  erring  children  pass  slowly  by, 
Stilling  the  heart  with  their  passoniate  cry: 
Lo  !   pass  under  the  rod  ! 

83 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Beautiful  golden-rod. 

Chosen  flower  of  God  ! 
Under  the  shade  of  your  spears  of  pain 
Many  a  heart  in  the  dusk  has  lain; 
But  the  cruel  barbs  wear  the  dust  of  peace, 
God's  love— it  bringeth  the  sore  heart  ease: 

Beautiful  golden-rod  ! 


84 


HARRIET  L.  WASON. 


Ibarriet  X,  Mason. 


TO  EUGENE  FIELD. 

If  I  could  know  that  thought  of  mine 
Had  power  to  start  a  sudden  tear 
In  other  eyes,  and  bring  more  near 

Some  dear  one  by  a  single  line,— 

If  I  could  know  a  chord  unstrung, 

Beneath  my  touch  would  lightly  break 
To  quivering  song,  and  tender  wake 

The  music  left  so  long  unsung— 

Should  I  not  feel  it  power  enough 

And  fame,  for  one?    Lo  !    it  is  thine, 

This  wond'rous  thing;   heart  chords  of  mine 

Take  up  their  old  strains,   crude  and  rough, 
To  pattern  on  a  broken  string, 
After  the  cadence  thou  dost  sing. 


SEPTEMBER. 

Who  will  may  laud  the  April  time,  her  glances  shy  and 

tender, 

That  deluge  the  expectant  earth  with  promises  of  splendor; 
Where  tears  are  so   entwined   with  smiles,   each  but  the 

other  seeming 
To  fulfill  her  erratic  moods  to  serve  for  restful  dreaming. 

85 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Better  September's  winsome  smiles  tinged  with  pathetic 

sadness, 
Thrilling  the  heart  with  subtle  power  than  all  the  summer's 

gladness, 
Those  Spartan  smiles  that  hide  a  pang  to  see  insidious 

creeping, 
The  treacherous  beauty  of  decay  on  all  within  her  keeping. 


The  lull  that  falls  on  eager  life  when  rush  of  strife  is  over 
Edges  the  mist  against  the  hills,  drapes  copes  and  sedgy 

cover; 
And  like  the  shadows  in  a  dream  the  swaying  sunbeams 

glitter, 
'Tis  luxury  to  simply  live,  all  sweet  without  the  bitter. 


The  aster  and  the  golden-rod  stand  nodding  in  the  bushes — 
For  them  she  tones  the  chilly  wind  that  o'er  the  prairie 

rushes; 
And    speeds    where    the    stately    pines    are    flinging    out 

defiance, 
To  every  smaller  monarchy  that  dares  to  claim  alliance. 


The  noisy  river  at  their  feet  subsides  to  faint  complaining; 

Forgets  the  prodigal  delight  that  welcomed  April's 
reigning, 

It  owns  the  chill  of  Autumn's  breath,  no  more  itself  de 
ceiving; 

September  holds  the  warp  and  woof  that  gauge  the  sum 
mer's  weaving. 

86 


HARRIET  L.  WASON. 

September  with  her  gorgeous  hues,   caressing  touch  and 

tender, 

Foreshadowing  no  coming  joys  but  fast  departing  splendor, 
Hiding  the  form  of  ruthless  change   in  robes  of  gayest 

seeming, 
And  filling  every  nook  with  peace;    this  is  the  time  for 

dreaming. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

ALFRED   LORD    TENNYSON. 


"And  may  there  be  no  moaning  at  the  bar. 
When  I  drift  out  to  sea."  -  Tennyson. 


A  pilot  he  who  many  a  craft  hath  steered 
To  the  unknown,  and  learned  the  way  to  bliss, 

The  rest  which  he  to  weary  hearts  endeared, 
Of  laborer's  right  is  his. 

On  death's  unfatliomed  vast  he  saileth  lone 
Whose  helm  has  guided  others  into  peace. 

We  dare  not  follow  him  with  wail  and  moan 
Who  bade  our  moans  to  cease. 

His  song  is  hushed;    the  singer  is  not  dead 
WTho  fashioned  song  like  this  for  us  to  keep. 

Its  import  like  a  rose  leaf,  summer  shed, 
Across  life's  storms  will  creep. 

87 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POE7S. 

That  peace  he  brought  to  us  will  reach  afar 
To  guide  him  on,  how  lone  his  voyage  be, 

And  there  shall  be  no  moaning  at  the  bar 
As  he  drifts  out  to  sea. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

COLONEL   JOHN    ARKINS, 
FOR   MANY  YEARS   EDITOR  OF  THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAIN   NEWS. 

Ignoble  seems  the  fashion  of  our  day 

That  stabs  the  living  and  applauds  the  dead, 

Gives  to  crude  wit  too  broad,  unlicensed  play, 
All  themes  alike  on  its  vile  missions  sped. 

Heedless  where  fall  the  points,  full  often  set 

Only  to  round  a  column  for  the  hour- 
Forgotten  soon  as  fashioned;    worthless,  yet 

Barbed  with  a  cancerous  and  malignant  power. 

Ye  who  so  lately  wounded,  come  ye  now 

Heaping  your  bay  leaves  on  his  happy  bier? 

Chaplet  with  laurel  his  unruffled  brow, 

For  his  unswerving  silence  drop  a  tear? 

Do  ye  not  know  this  tribute  stintless  strewn, 
Even  yesterday  as  rightfully  was  his? 

Why  feared  ye  lest  some  honor  should  be  shown? 
Of  all  this  wealth  what  atom  would  ye  miss? 

To-day  his  eyes  in  death's  sweet  peace  are  sealed, 
See  not  your  graceful  turns  in  wordy  gem; 

Your  paeans  of  applause  are  idly  pealed 

On  ears  that  once  had  priceless  valued  them. 

88 


HARRIET  L.  WASON. 

"Always  a  cheerful  giver"  one  tells  o'er; 

"God  loves  a  cheerful  giver,"   saith  another. 
"Called  to  decide  between  the  rich  and  poor 

His  soul  reached  ever  to  his  poorer  brother. 

"His  charities  were  blazoned  not  abroad." 

"Let   not  your   left   know    what   your    right   hand 
doeth," 

Cautioned  the  Nazarene.    This  brave  soul  heard, 
Nor  needs  that  human  judge  his  cause  revieweth. 

'Twas  in  the  flesh  he  did  these  gracious  deeds. 

Ye  could  not  spare  a  pause  to  praise  him  then. 
Because  your  grief  is  true  believe  he  pleads, 

Turn  to  the  living  Avorld  with  living  men 

Ready  to  fall  beneath  their  weight  of  strife, 

Soul-sick  of  jest  primed  full  of  cautering  darts; 

And  fit  a  broader  code  into  your  life, 

Since  even  public  men  have  private  hearts. 


DENVER  HIGH   SCHOOL  CADETS. 


Attention  !      Forward  ! — looking    left    nor    right, 
Soldiers  in  jest,  yet  training  for  a  fight 
Which  shapes  to  earnest  as  the  years  unroll 
For  you  to  stamp  the  future's  mystic  scroll; 
Youth's  joyous  pulses  thrumming  double  quick 
To  clash  of  swords  or  rifle's  stirring  click; 

89 


-EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Eyes  looking  o'er  the  field  without  a  fear, 
Failure  so  far  and  all  success  so  near. 
Attention  !     Forward  !     Looking  left  nor  right, 
Soldiers  in  jest,  yet  training  for  the  tight. 

Among  your  ranks  perchance  a  "silent  man" 
In  embryo  waits  his  life's  maturer  plan; 
Or  second  Lincoln,  whom  his  country's  need 
Shall  instant  teach  to  do  subliiuest  deed; 
Or  unfledged  orator,  with  soul  of  fire, 
"To  wake  to  ecstacy  the  living  lyre." 
Each  fits  a  place.    The  picket's  vantage  post 
Holds  in  its  care  the  trusting  centered  host. 
The  privates  as  battalions  force  a  way 
Where  skill  alone  would  perish  in  the  fray. 
Attention  !     Forward  !     Looking  left  nor  right— 
Who  cannot  lead  can  follow  in  the  fight. 

Soldiers  in  jest,  beneath  the  coats  of  blue, 
The  boyish  hearts  beat  loyally  and  true. 
Full  well  we  know  should  foreign  foe  be  nigh, 
And  earnest  take  the  place  of  mimicry; 
Should  civil  discord  with  her  furnace  breath 
Invite  you  to  a  carnival  of  death; 
By  danger  moulded  suddenly  to  men, 
Heroes  in  truth  your  bearing  would  be  then, 
Your  battle  cry  outsurging  o'er  the  fight- 
Attention  !    Forward  !    Looking  left  nor  right. 


90 


HARRIET  LANCASTER  WESTCOTT. 


Ibarriet  OLancaster  Westcott 


NIGHT  COMETH. 


"  For  the  night  cometh  when  no  man  can  work." 

Night  cometb  from  over  the  mountains. 

Its  shadowy  feet 
To  the  forests,  the  fields,  and  the  fountains 

Come  faintly  but  fleet. 

Night  cometh  and  one  hath  his  labor  half  done, 
As  he  waits  by  the  roadside  at  setting  of  sun. 

Night  cometh,  and  over  the  meadow 

It  quietly  flows 
And  hides  in  the  wave  of  its  shadow; 

The  clover — the  rose. 

Night  cometh,  and  one  with  his  spade  in  his  hand, 
Sits  weeping  in  darkness  he  can't  understand. 

Night  cometh.     The  waves  of  the  ocean 

That  shone  in  the  sun 
Are  heavy  and  sombre  in  motion; 

Their  glory  is  gone; 

Night  cometh,  and  one  there  is  wringing  his  hands 
And  sighing  "too  late,"  as  he  sits  on  the  sands. 


EVENINGS  WJTH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Night  corueth,  and  with  it  the  riot 

Of  daylight  goes  down; 
The  stars  in  their  shining  give  quiet 

To  village  and  town. 

Night  cometh;   how  many  in  Held  or  in  street 
Lie  down  with  the  work  of  their  life  complete? 


THE    WOELD    WAS    ALL    BEFORE    ME. 


When  the  world  was  all  before  me, 
Life  was  like  a  summer  day; 

With  Its  sunshine  streaming  o'er  me, 
With  its  roses  by  the  way. 

And  I  fancied  that  its  sweetness 

Like  a  river,  flowing  by, 
Would  run  on  in  its  completeness, 

Under  an  unclouded  sky. 

There  was  Youth,  with  Hope,  the  charmer, 

Ever  whispering  in  the  ear; 
Never  heart  than  mine  beat  calmer, 

In  this  Spring  time  of  Life's  year. 

And  I  walked  as  if  the  meadow 

Where  the  summer  flowers  did  grow 

Had  no  knowledge  of  the  shadow, 
Or  the  winter,  or  the  snow. 


92 


HARRIET  LANCASTER  WESTCOTT. 

But— alas  !    the  bowers  have  faded 
And  the  cold  wind  sweeps  along 

And  rny  heart  by  sorrow  shaded 
Sings  no  more  its  happy  song. 

I  am  but  an  atom,  drifting 

On  the  ever-swelling  tide; 
Over  sands  forever  shifting 

To  the  other,  unknown  side. 

Hope  has  fled,  and  memories  find  me 
As,  with  folded  hands  I  stand 

(Thinking  of  what  lies  behind  me) 
Lone  and  lonely  in  Life's  land. 


IN  SUN   AND   STORM. 


In  sun  and  storm  I  watch  the  shore 
For  ventures  sent  out  long  ago, 

In  shallops  that  return  no  more 

From  lands  beyond  the  cold  and  snow. 

Such  precious  freight  they  bore,  as  hope 
And  trusting  innocence  might  find 

Along  the  blossom-laden  slope 

The  years  of  childhood  leave  behind. 


93 


EVENLVGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

I  watch  and  wait;  and  in  the  night 
I  question  all  the  twinkling  stars, 

If  in  their  shining  they  may  sight 

Some  home-bound  ship  beyond  the  bars. 

But  never  answer  they  return— 

The  silence  and  the  night  are  one; 

The  moonbeams  chill,  the  sunbeams  burn, 
As  round  and  round  the  seasons  run, 

And  never,  never  bring  me  back 
The  ventures  sent  out  long  ago, 

Across  the  treacherous  ocean's  track, 
To  realms  beyond  the  cold  and  snow. 


PERCHANCE. 

Still  looking  forward  to  my  hope 

I  watch  the  white  snows  on  the  slope, 

Of  mountain  ranges; 
And  think  perchance  the  breeze  of  May 
Will  bring  with  bloom  of  hawthorn  spray 

Some  sweeter  changes. 

The  morning  glories  white  and  red, 
Of  last  year's  planting,  all  are  dead — 

Lilies  have  lost  their  glory, 
And  yet  I  know  the  pulse  of  spring 
Will  open  them  to  blossoming 

With  May's  returning  story. 

94 


HARRIET  LANCASTER  WESTCOTT. 

Perchance  the  May  will  bring  to  me 
The  visions  that  in  dreams  I  see, 

And  make  its  coming  real. 
But  in  this  winter  of  my  woe 
I  only  see  the  falling  snow, 

And  not  my  heart's  ideal. 

Oh  !   speed,  ye  wheels  of  coming  time, 
And  bring  me  to  that  sunny  clime 

Where  shadow  cometh  never; 
Where  blossoms  blooming  never  fall, 
But  hang  in  glory  on  the  wall 

Forever  and  forever. 


HEKE  AND  THERE. 

"  Let  us  cross  over  the  river  and  rest  under  the  shade  of  the  trees." — Stone-wall 
Jackson's  last  -words, 

On  this  side  we  stand  so  lonely, 

On  this  side  we  linger  only 
Till  the  parting  summons  calls; 

As  we  gaze  out  over  yonder 

Of  its  rest  we  all  grow  fonder, 
Heedless  of  what  here  befalls. 

Where  eternal  sunbeams  quiver 

In  the  land  beyond  the  river, 
Calm  content  forever  rolls; 

There  are  trees  whose  cooling  shadow 

Lies  across  the  emerald  meadow, 
Giving  rest  to  weary  souls. 

95 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


White  sands  011  the  beach  are  lying, 
Wave  to  wave  is  still  replying, 

But  iu  silence  or  ill  sound, 

There  are  those  who,  crossing  over, 
Father,  mother,  child  or  lover 

Leave  no  footprints  that  are  found. 


Soldier,  statesman,  minstrel,  maiden, 
Each  heart  light  or  heavy  laden, 

Waits,  at  last  its  turn  to  cross — 
In  the  sunlight  or  star  shining, 
With  souls  joyous  or  repining, 

Laying  down  life's  gain  or  loss. 


Oh  !    the  sad  procession,  proving 
We  are  only  human,  moving 
In  its  silence  to  the  shore. 

There  are  links  that  now  lie  broken — 
Words  on  lips  and  yet  unspoken- 
Songs  that  can  be  sung  no  more. 


All  life's  smiling,  all  life's  weeping, 

All  life's  waking,  all  life's  sleeping 
End  when  once  we  touch  this  tide. 

Thou!   whose  love  our  sins  can  cover, 

Lead  us  gently,  kindly  over, 
Where  in  rest  we  shall  abide. 


96 


HARRIET  LANCASTER  WESTCOTT. 


HARRIET  LANCASTER  WESTCOTT. 


AN    AUTUMN    REVEKIE. 


The  autumn  leaves  are  falling,  the  summer  days  have  fled, 
Each  faded  leaf  recalling  some  summer  long  since  dead. 
The  wind  sweeps  o'er  the  stubble  and  down  the  valley  road, 
And  life  is  full  of  trouble  and  heavier  grows  life's  load. 

If  lilies  and  if  roses  would  only  never  fade, 

If  violets  and  daisies  forever  with  us  stayed, 

If  emerald  vale  and  meadow  would  wear  eternal  green, 

Ah,  never  would  a  shadow  come  o'er  the  summer  scene. 

If  life  were  always  changeless  and  love  forever  true, 

If  hope  for  each  new  comer,  and  joy  we  only  knew, 

If  never  any  sorrow  came  o'er  the  human  heart 

There'd  never  be  a  morrow  when  friends  would  need  to  part. 

Beyond  us  and  above  us  we  hear  an  echo  fall; 
It  reaches  those  who  love  us  in  palace  or  in  hall, 
It  sings  the  song  of  ages  that  were  and  are  to  be 
And  opens  wide  the  pages  that  some  may  never  see. 

We  listen  and  we  linger,  and  still  the  days  go  by; 
We  watch  the  Sybil's  finger  beneath  a  darkening  sky, 
We  hear  the  whispered  warning  but  still  we  do  not  heed 
The  lesson  night  or  morning,  though  hearts  may  break  or 
bleed. 

97 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Oh,  sunshine  in  the  meadow  this  pleasant  afternoon, 
Why  is  it  that  the  shadow  must  follow  on  so  soon? 
Why  is  it  that  the  flowers,  the  white,  the  blue,  the  red, 
Are  falling  on  earth's  bosom,  their  fragile  beauty  dead? 

A  type,  alas  !    of  mortals  that  come  on  earth  to  bloom. 
Then  pass  beyond  the  portals  that  open  to  the  tomb  ! 
Life  hath  its  meed  of  gladness,  but  oh  !  so  brief  its  stay, 
It  leaves  behind  it  sadness  that  never  goes  away. 


MA  Y  SPENCER  PARK  AND. 


flDa\>  Spencer  ifarranfc. 


A   VACANT   PLACE. 

There's  a  song  whose  notes  are  slow  and  sweet 

And  the  words  are  sad  and  tender, 
Though  my  heart  it  seems  to  throb  and  beat 

With  a  wave  of  departed  splendor. 
There's  a  face  that  never  in  mortal  ken 

Shall  smile  on  the  loved  left  lonely, 
And  feet  that  walk  not  the  ways  of  men, 

And  a  voice  that  in  dreams  comes  only. 

There's  a  harp  that  lies  with  a  broken  string, 
And  a  leaf  turned  down,  of  a  story; 

A  song  on  the  rack  that  she  used  to  sing, 
Who  sings  now  in  the  realms  of  glory. 

There's  a  chair  left  vacant,  where  mem'ry  shows, 
As  the  twilight  around  us  closes, 

A  form  that  lieth  in  soft  repose 

And  a  face  that  is  'neath  the  roses. 

There's  a  piece  of  work  in  the  basket  dropped, 

'Twas  designed  as  a  loving  token, 
It  lies  unfinished,  the  needle  stopped 

When  the  thread  of  her  life  was  broken; 
There's  an  angel  now  on  the  other  side 

And  on  this  a  home  left  lonely; 
There's  a  vacant  chair  by  the  fireside 

And  a  voice  that  in   dreams  comes  only. 

99 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


OUTCAST. 


Flaunting  the  tinsel  of  shame  in  your  face, 

•  Heeding  no  warning, 
Living  and  trading  on  her  disgrace, 
When  has  she  seen  in  the  look  of  a  face, 

Pity,  not  scorning? 
Matron,  with  children  who  flee  to  your  breast 

When  griefs  assail  them. 

What  if  your  hands  were  crossed   dumbly  in  rest, 
If  you  could  guard  not  the  birds  in  your  nest, 

If  you  should  fail  them? 

Has  she  had  ever  to  cheer  her  and  guide, 

Mother's    affection? 

Holding  her  back  when   she  faltered  aside, 
Softly  to  praise  her,  or  gently  to  chide, 

For    her    protection  ? 
Looking   in   scorn   upon   all   that   she   hath, 

Her    degradation ; 

Spurning  the  sinner,  astray  from  the  path, 
Judge  not, — ye  know  not.  ye  righteous  in  wrath, 

What  her  temptation  ! 

What  wiles  have  lured  her  to  falter  and  fall, 

Poor  sister   woman  ! 
Is  there  between  ye  so  mighty  a  wall, 
Barrier  iron,  impassable,  tall? 

Is  she  not  human? 


MA  Y  SPENCER  FARRAND. 

When  has  a1  hand  been  outstretched  her  to  save, 

Not  to  degrade  her? 

Erring,  as  human,  she  took  what  ye  gave, 
And  she  will  go  to  her  rest  in  the  grave, 

What  man  hath  made   her  ! 


Turn  then  and  scoff  at  the  wreck  if  ye  will, 

(Sin-hardened   features), 

Turn,  but  while  scorn  doth  your  scrutiny  fill, 
Know  that  for  all  of  her  faults  she  is  still 

One  of  God's  creatures  ! 
And  in  the  day  when  all  things  shall  be  known, 

By  our  temptation, 

Not  by  our  failures  and  erring  alone — 
When  we  stand  up,  face  to  face  at  God's  throne, 

Be   our  salvation  ! 


THE   HAUNTED   CASTLE. 


It  stands  with  crumbling  walls  decayed, 

By  bats  and  rooks  tenanted, 
And  village   wight  and  peasant  maid 
Recount  the  tale,   as  half  afraid 
The  tale  of  halls  enchanted; 
How  thro'  that  ruin  flits  the  shade 
Of  many  a  form  that  once  hath  strayed 
Within   that  castle  haunted. 


101 


EYEN1NGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Each  stranger  doth  the  legend  hear, 

Doth  list  the  oft'  told  story, 
Of  ghostly  figures  that  appear, 
Of  knights  whose  spur-clank  frights  the  ear, 

And  chieftains,  old  and  hoary, 
Who  come  again  with  lance  and  spear, 
To  gather  there  at  midnight  drear 
In  all  their  old  time  glory. 

That  stately  pile,  a  ruin  old, 

A  wreck  of  by-gone  splendor, 
Hath  witnessed  many  a  love  tale  told, 
The  vow  of  knightly  lover  bold, 
And  glances  fond  and  tender. 
The  lips  that  spoke  the  pledge  are  cold, 
But  still  those  halls  its  echo  hold, 
That  saw  a  heart's  surrender. 

Within  those  rooms  full   mau3'  a  knight 

Hath  sued  his  lady's  token, 
And   worn    it   forth   in    valiant   fight 
With  clinking  mail  and  shield  bedight; 

And  now  the  gloom  is  broken 
By  sounds  of  revelry  at  night, 
By   toasts  and  laughter  gay  and   light, 

Where  gallant  words  were  spoken. 

Some  lady  fair  of  high  estate 

Did  near  yon  lattice  hover, 
And  there  with  blushing  cheek  await 
The  prancing  steed  pass  thro'  the  gate, 

That  bore  her  lordly  lover. 


MA  Y  SPENCER  FAR  RAND. 

And  now,  when  evening's  hour  grows  late, 
A  face  behind  that  crumbling  grate 
These  village  folk  discover. 

No  more  those  halls  are  gay  with  song, 

By  throbbing  hearts  tenanted, 
No  more  those  knights  assail  the  wrong, 
And  ride  with  gallant  mien  and  strong, 

From   out  those  gates  enchanted. 
But  as  night's  shadow  groweth  long 
They   gather   there,   that   spectral   throng 
Within  that  castle  haunted. 


IN  ANGELS'  SONGS. 

You  came  to  my  life  like  a  fragrant  bloom 

In  a  desert's  green  oasis, 
Like  a  star  that  gleams  through  the  night  of  gloom 

And  shines  on  the  shadowed  places; 

As  a  low,  sweet  cord  with  a  tender  air, 

Steals  over  the  hush  of  even, 
And  raises  the  heart  from  its  earthly  care 

To  a  dim  forecast  of  Heaven. 

You  left  my  life  as  the  summer  flies, 

At  touch  of  the  frost  king's  fingers, 
As  the  star  recedes  in  the  darkened  skies 

And  only  a  mem'ry  lingers. 
I  list  for  the  sound  of  the  chord  in  vain, 

In  the  twilight  hush  of  even, 
But  I  know  it  will  steal  on  my  ear  again, 

In  the  angels'  songs  in  Heaven. 

103 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


Emma  p. 


OLD   WINTER   IN  COLORADO. 

Old  winter  !   at  thy  name  what  visions  rise 

Of  fields  outstretched,  bewildering  brown  and  bare, 
Of  ice  and  chill,  and  snowdrifts  everywhere, 
Or  mists  and  rain  and  lowering  cloudy  skies. 
Thou  hast  thy  sunny  side,  thy  gloomy  guise 
Is  not  for  us;    upon  this  ambient  air 
Thy  breath  is  sweet  as  May,  and  thou  dost  wear 
Such  smiles  !    Each  morn  unfolds  some  new  surprise. 
O'er  Colorado's  mountains  thou  dost  trail 
Thy  days  so  sun-bespangled  that  they  seem 

Steps  to  the  infinite,  and  whirl  on  whirl 
They  circle  westward  like  a  golden  sail 
Upon  the  billowy  blue,  a  radiant  dream 

Which  nightward  drifts  upon  their  gates  of  pearl. 


BEAUTY  OF  SIN. 

They  told  me  the  story  over  and  over, 

That  sin  was  hateful  to  mortal  eyes. 
I  looked  for  a  monster;   how  could  I  know, 

When  she  came  in  beautiful  radiant  guise, 
My  strength  of  purpose  to  overthrow, 

That  she  was  the  temptress?  Ah,  sin  is  fair; 
The  thistle  bloom  is  sweet  as  the  clover, 

Till  you  feel  the  sting  of  its  prick,  beware. 

104 


EMMA  P.  SEA  BURY. 


ONLY  A   SLIP   OF  THE  PEN. 

Did  I  write  that  I  loved  you?    Ah,  never; 

It  was  only  a  slip  of  the  pen, 
For  loving  means  giving  forever, 

And  asking  for  nothing  again; 

Means  souls  that  life  cannot  sever, 

And  death  blends  in  harmony.— When 

Did  I  say  that  I  loved  you?    Ah,  never; 
It  was  only  a  slip  of  the  pen. 

I  could  give  you  life's  sweetest  endeavor, 
Myself  and  my  frailties— but  then 

Love  means  so  much  more  !   You  are  clever, 
But  you're  often  mistaken,  you  men. 

Did  I  write  that  I  loved  you?    Ah,  never; 
It  was  only  a  slip  of  the  pen. 


FIDES. 

Yes,  I  forgive  you,  dearest;  you  must  see 

That  this  is  love's  sweet  mission  every  day, 
And  yet  I  can  but  own,  it  startles  me 

To  feel  you  might  have  frightened  me  away. 
When  once  a  tempest  tears  and  rends  a  tree, 

It  quivers  when  it  hears  its  voice  alway, 
Till  wooing  breeze  and  loving  skies  and  glee 

Of  stars   have  kissed  and  wooed   it  back  thro'   many 
a  May, 

105 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Nature  and  love  are  patient,  and  you  know 
They  never  wait  the  sunshine  all  in  vain; 

You  will  not  chide  me,  dearest,  if  I  say, 
Please  wait  awhile,  the  gladness  and  the  glow, 
That  came  and  went  with  you,  before  the  pain 
Through  all  my  being,  rent  and  thrilled  its  way. 


Under  the  snow,  the  arbustus'  sweet  leaves 

Reach  with  true  instinct  for  the  hand  of  spring; 
Under  the  snow  the  woodland  violet  weaves 

The  dainty  texture  of  its  covering. 
Under  the  mossy  stone  the  tendril  cleaves 

Its  sinewy  way  to  light;   on  restless  wing 
The  birds,  whose  spirit  in  the  shadow  grieves, 

Mount  up  to  Heaven  and  circle,  soar  and  sing. 
No  spring  so  late  that  flowers  lose  their  trust, 

No  Joy  so  long  delayed  but  love  may  see 

Some  hidden  germ  unfolding  in  the  gloom. 
Nature  interprets  love,  as  flowers,  dust. 

Our  souls  are  like  the  waiting  buds  to  me; 

In  God's  own  time  they  have  their  perfect  bloom. 


WAITING. 


Always  just  outside  the  conflict, 
Watchman  on  the  outer  wall; 

Gonfalon  in  which  I  glory 

Swaying,  seized,  about  to  fall; 

106 


EMMA   P.  SEABURY 

Eager,  restless,  anxious,  burning 
For  the  fray,  with  flying  feet; 

But  a  sentinel  returning 

With  his  folded  arms,  his  beat. 
From  the  General  at  the  gate 
Comes  the  order  "Stand  and  wait.' 

Always  hearing  in  the  distance 
Roll  of  fife  and  beat  of  drum; 

Always  feeling  fate's  resistance; 
Siren  voices  calling,  "Come, 

Walk  the  mountain  paths  with  beauty, 
Scale  the  height,  the  glory  glean;" 

Always  fettered  close  to  duty, 

Groping  through  the  black  ravine; 
Love  and  life  and  light  innate, 
But  the  Master  orders  "Wait  !" 

Always  toiling  and  aspiring 
For  the  vague  ideal  goal; 

Hope,  ambition,  purpose  firing 
Every  impulse  of  my  soul. 

Always  by  a  hair's-breadth  missing — 
Bitter,  sour,  importunate, 

Hearing  the  successful,  hissing 
"Always  just  a  little  late  !" 
Patience  I  can  ne'er  create, 
Still  I  hear  the  mandate  "Wait  !" 

Hope  and  dreams  and  youth  evanish, 
Pain  and  care  are  passing  hard; 

Still  the  wish  I  cannot  banish, 
For  the  toil  and  its  reward. 

107 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 
Still  iny  prize  is  won  by  others; 

Weak  I  grow,  disconsolate. 
Oh  !   the  heaviest  cross,  my  brothers, 

In  this  Cavalry  of  fate, 
.     Is  not  early  work  and  late, 

But  with  folded  hands  to  wait. 

By-aud-by,  I  often  wonder 

What  the  Master's  will  may  be, 

When  the  spirit  bursts  asunder, 
From  its  mortal  fetters  free, 

Will  Time  still  have  its  dominion? 
Shall  I  always  feel  its  bond? 

Or  on  light  ethereal  pinion 

Shall  I  range  the  heights  beyond? 
Warder,  at  the  heavenly  gate, 
Wilt  thou  echo  still  "Too  late?" 
Wilt  thou  bid  my  spirit  wait? 


108 


THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL. 


IRelson 


HYMN  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT 
LINCOLN. 

With  awe  profound  this  day, 
The  Nation  bows  to  pray 

In  bitter  grief; 

And  through  the  stricken  land 
The  broken-hearted  stand 
And  mourn  on  every  hand 

Their  martyred  chief. 

The  Almighty  ruler  hears 
His  sorrowing  people's  tears 

Fall  at  His  feet; 
Makes  our  just  cause  His  eare, 
Indites  and  hears  our  prayer, 
And  for  us  still  makes  bare 

His  mercy  seat. 

O,  Thou  who  hast  removed 
"Him  whom  the  people  loved" — 

Thy  servant  rare — 
Who  gavest  him  strength  and  light 
To  see  and  guard  the  right, 
Still  grant  Thy  holy  might 

To  men  of  prayer. 

109 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Bless  still  our  Nation'  head- 
Successor  of  the  dead— 

And  keep  his  life; 
While  armies  cease  their  tread, 
And  those  who  fought  and  bled 
Rest  on  their  peaceful  bed, 
Heal  all  our  strife. 

Comfort  each  stricken  one, 
O,  God,  the  Father,  Son 

And  Holy  Ghost; 
While  in  our  hearts  we  own 
That  here  Thy  love  is  known 
And  Thine  the  only  throne 

Of  which  we  boast. 


KING      KONKAPUT'S      APOSTROPHE      UPON 
PIKE'S    PEAK. 


I  seem  as  nothing,  Source  of  Nature,  now; 

Foot-hills,  and  plains  and  peaks  in  beauty  vie, 
While  from  above  the  bending  heavens  bow 

To  blend  as  one' thy  blessed  majesty, 

And  halo  all  the  human  eye  can  see, 
With  the  best  glory  of  the  sun's  glad  beam, 

Into  one  most  amazing  mystery — 
Where  sights  so  grand  are  grander  than  they  seem. 
And  strains  of  silent  music  most  melodious  stream. 


no 


THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL. 

Yet  what  I  see,  yon  eagle  looks  upon 

More  grandly,  o'er  the  tallest  mountain  height; 

He  soars  above  the  distant,  dazzling  sun, 
As  if  to  live  on  its  affluent  light, 
And  of  the  sun's  own  eye  to  catch  the  sight; 

Then  on,  and  on,  he  soars  and  sails  away, 
Defying  height  in  all  his  daring  flight, 

Till,  like  a  speck  he  seems  of  the  sun's  ray. 

And  dies  of  distance  in  the  depths  of  uudim'd  day  ! 


O  that  I  might  thus  soar  above  the  earth; 

In  my  uplifting  seem  myself  the  less,    . 
And  lead  the  world  to  long  for  loftier  worth; 

On  sires  and  sons  this  princely  scene  impress, 

So  blend  with  sunbeams  this  sad  earth  to  bless; 
Soaring  away  from  every  wanton  sight, 

And,  drenched  in  sunlight  as  my  living  dress, 
Or,  losing  self  in  the  surpassing  light, 

Illume  earth's  darkness  and  allay  distress; 
So,  sinking  self  from  sight  in  light  and  height, 
As  thus  to  make  earth's  chill  and  breadth  more  cheer  and 
bright. 


Behold  I  stand  now  'bove  my  native  hills  ! 

I  view  once  more  their  varied  landscapes  o'er; 
My  throbbing  brain— enthralled  in  beauty— thrills 

While  memory  weeps  o'er  men  I'll  meet  no  more  ! 

Here  Ca-Ni-Ah-Che  stood  in  days  of  yore; 
Here  Clark,  Kit  Carson  and  kind  Fremont  came; 

Here  famous  leaders  stood,  full  long  before, 
With  him  who  conjured  first  my  kingly  name; 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Aye,  in  this  place  stood  he  whom  I  deplore, 
Whose  warrior  name  was  iiot  unknown  to  fame: 
His  race  I  haste  to  bless,  rather  than  curse  or  blame  ! 


I  would  now  lead  1'rom  nature  up  to  God 

My  wicked  race  of  wayward,  war-like  men, 
Along  the  paths  the  Prince  of  Peace  hath  trod, 

And  consecrate  to  Him  each  mount  and  glen. 

My  steps,  O  Lord,  I  bend  where  thou  hast  been, 
And  give  my  life,  with  every  gain  and  loss; 

And  if  I  fail,  would  fall  in  some  such  scene 
As  this,  or  that  where  thou  hast  laid  thy  Cross 

So  high  and  clear,  so  holy  and  so  clean, 
As  driven  snow,  with  not  a  speck  of  dross: 
So,  into  Heaven  from  Pizgah's  heights  I'd  pass  across  ! 


NED'S  VALENTINE. 


To  fain  a  forgetting  with  hope  to  succeed, 

Like  regrets  for  regretting,  still  pays  the  more  heed; 

I  fained  to  forget  thee;   for  thus  I  agreed; 

But  kind  fates  would  not  let  me  effect  the  false  deed; 

For  each  leisure  hour,  with  love  on  its  wing, 

Possessed  the  strange  power  bright  visions  to  bring 

From  the  fields  of  the  past;   and  each  time  where  we  met, 

From  the  first  to  the  last,  lives  vividly  yet; 

And  honest  affection  for  thee — still  for  thee — 

Forbids  the  reflection— She  thinks  not  of  me  ! 

112 


THOMAS   NELSON   HASKELL. 


THOMAS  NELSON  HASKELL. 

O,  the  sweet  sunny  hours,  the  deep  vernal  skies, 
The  forests  and  flowers,  where  love-lighted  eyes 
Together  were  glancing — joys  mutual  and  true — 
When  the  night  air,  advancing  through  tAvilight  and  dew, 
Waved  gently  beside  us  as  we  sat  confiding, 
No  mortal  to  chide  us,  where  small  trees  were  hiding 
Our  sacred  retreat — but  the  woodman  had  been 
And  made  us  a  seat,  so  suited  just  then; 
When  you  left  in  my  power— you  do  not  forget- 
To  prolong  yet  the  hour— I  would  it  were  yet  ! 

Rare  moments  like  those  with  the  one  I  most  love, 

Will  cheer  life  to  its  close,  and  make  sweeter  above 

The  glorified  air  where  glad  angels  reside, 

With  communion  their  care,  pure  affection  their  pride; 

While  dear  saints  we  have  known,  in  their  services  here, 

Bent  down  from  their  throne  to  hark  to  our  cheer, 

In  our  utterances  true  of  emotions  as  pure 

As  the  hearts  where  they  grew  and  the  hopes  they  ensure, 

So  chaste  and  so  choice  they'll  be  e'er  chanted  o'er 

By  sweet  daughters  of  voice,  the  swift  echoes  of  yore  ! 

Aye,  'twere  easier  far,  to  rob  a  clear  night 

Of  its  most  brilliant  star,  than  steal  thee  from  my  sight; 

And  on  this  day  of  mating,  when  the  beasts  and  the  birds 

Their  proposals  are  stating  in  their  most  loving  words, 

I  would  not  forget  thee,  but  void  my  rash  vow; 

For  thy  words  will  not  let  me — I'm  hearing  them  now— 

And  whate'er  betide  me  on  life's  tossing  sea, 

Three  guerdons  shall  guide  me — God,  duty  and  thee; 

And  the  joy  of  my  life  (could  that  joy  but  be  mine) 

Would  be:    Thee  for  my .By  Saint  Valentine. 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

A  THANKSGIVING  HYMN  FOR  HARD  TIMES. 

We  come  to  worship  Thee, 
God  of  eternity, 

With  grateful  song; 
With  thanks  for  daily  bread, 
For  place  to  lay  our  head, 
For  love  that  still  hath  led 

Our  lives  along. 

We   thank   Thy   thoughtful   will 
For  all  things  needful  still, 

For  public  peace; 
For  seasons  and  for  rains, 
For  fruitage  and  for  grains, 
For  all  Thy  love  ordains, 

Nor  let  them  cease. 

We  ask  Thine  aid  to  bear 
Each  crushing  load  of  care, 

So  like  Thy  cross; 
To  walk  in  wisdom's  way, 
In  all  we  do  or  say, 
"Thy  will  be  done,"  to  pray, 

In   spite  of  loss. 

And  as  we  try  to  do 
What  to  all  truth  is  true, 

Hence  from  this  hour, 
God  of  eternity, 
Do  help  us  worship  Thee 
In  sweet  serenity. 

Great  Source  of  Power. 

f'4 


S.  MARIE  TALBOT. 


ic  Galbot 


WATCHMAN  !    WHAT   OF   THE   NIGHT? 

"Tell  me,  watchman  !    what  thou  seest 

Scanning  all  the  sullen  main, 
Where  my  argosies  are  sailing, 

Tell  me,  will  they  come  again, 
Heavy   laden   with   the  treasures 

Which  at  home  I  sought  in  vain — 
Gems   from    India's   sunlit   tropics, 

Priceless  stores  of  hoarded  grain?" 

And  he  answered  from  his  tower: 

"Naught  I  see  of  ships  of  thine; 
O'er  the  sky  the  storm  rack  flieth, 

Churns  in  wrath  the  angry  brine; 
Shrieks  the  North-wind  from  his  cavern, 

And  from  every  starry  sign 
Gleams  but  portent  of  disaster, 

Woe  to-night  for  ships   of  thine  !" 

Then  I  thought  of  wife  and  children 

For  whose  sake  I  ventured  all, 
And  my  soul  grew  sick  and  fainting 

Lest  the  dreaded  blow  should  fall. 
But  behold  !    across  the  cloud  rack 

Shining  bright  a  starlet  small, 
Message  sent  across  the  spaces, 

"Let  there  naught  thy  heart  appall  ! 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

"He  who  hollowed  out  the  ocean, 
Set  each  star  upon  its  throne, 

He  will  neither  sleep  nor  slumber, 
Watching  o'er  his  very  own." 

Then  I  knew  iny  ships  would  enter 
Into  harbor,  one  by  one, 

With  the  wealth  for  wife  and  babies, 
That  had  been  so  hardly  won. 

"Tell  me,  watchman  !    what  thou  seest?" 

We  were  on  the  sullen  sea, 
And  again  the  cloud  rock  drifted, 

While  my  darlings  flung  to  me. 
Raged   the  tempest,   roared  the  storm-fiend, 

And  the  land  was  far  a-lee, 
"Woe  to  thee  with  thy  heart  treasures  !" 

Cried  the  watchman   out  to   me. 

When    the    morning   dawned    in   splendor, 

And  the  storm  was  over  past, 
I,   a  shipwrecked    man   and   sailor 

On  an  ocean   rock   was  fast, 
But  I  found  nor  wife  nor  children 

Throughout  all   the  dreary   waste, 
And  my  soul  was  sick   within  me, 

And  I  prayed  for  death  at  last. 

Then  the  sound  of  distant  watch-cry, 

Heard  but  by  the  inner  ear, 
"Safe  in  harbor  !"— "Landed  safely  !" 

"Cease  thy  cry  of  anguished  fear  ! 

116 


S.  MARIE    TALBOT. 

There  shall  be  no  sea— nor  sailing 
After  shores  that  disappear, 

Anchored   safe  in   Heaven's  harbor, 
They  are  sharing  angels'  cheer." 

"Watchman  !    tell  me  by  what  journey 

I  may  follow  in  their  wake? 
By  what  perils,   through  what  dangers, 

I  that  heavenly  shore  may  make?" 
"Christ,"  he  said,  "must  be  the  pilot, 

He'll  not  leave  thee,  nor  forsake, 
Till  across  the  waste  of  waters 

Heaven's   beacon   lights   shall   break.' 


TO   MARY. 

'INSCRIBED  TO  THE  AUTHOR'S  DAUGHTER. 

Where  Aves  are  ringing 

From  altar  to  dome, 
Where  woman  is  worshipped 

In  palace  and  home, 
Supremest  and  sweetest 

And  brightest  and  best, 
Belov'd  with  a  passion 

No  words  have  expressed — 
'Tis  Mary  unto  whom 

The  world's  heart  has  turned 
'Tis  many  unto  whom 

Its  incense  has  burned. 

117 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

But  thou,  of  all  Mary's 

The  world  has  adored, 
For  thee  Love's  libation 

Is  richest  outpoured. 
In  darkness  our  angel, 

Our  life's  latest  flow'r, 
We  own  thy  dominion, 

Thy  sovereign  pow'r; 
And  could  we  but  wrest 

From  the  earth,  air  or  sea, 
Its  choicest  of  treasures, 

'Twould  be  but  for  thee. 

While  life  holds  its  throne, 
Either  here  or  beyond, 

'Tis  to  Mary,  sweet  Mary, 
Our  hearts  will  respond. 


EARLY    AND    LATE. 
I. 

A  gladsome  girl— a  summer's  morn, 
A  springing  step — an  eye  of  light, 

A  breeze  that  sang  'mid  tass'led  corn, 

And  mead  aglint  with  dew   gems  bright. 

Adown  the  years  the  maiden's  eyes 

With  wistful  question  bent  their  blue, 

And  asked  the  tender  opal  skies 

If  Life  were  fair  and  Love  were  true. 

118 


S.  MARIE   TALBOT. 

And  ev'ry  bird  its  mate  that  wooed, 
And  ev'ry  sound  that  stirred  the  air, 

Joined  in  the  chorus:    "All  is  good  ! 
And  Love  is  true  and  Life  is  fair." 


II. 


An  afternoon  of  grey  and  gloom, 
A  leaden  sky  with  clouds  o'ercast, 

A  woman  in  her  darkened  room, 
Back  looking  to  a  youth  o'erpast. 

Adown  the  western  slope  of  life 

She  sees  from  out  her  window's  square, 
And  all  her  days  with  sorrow  rife 

Forbid  her  say  that  Life  is  fair. 

A  churchyard  stone,  a  mound  of  grass, 
A  lock  of  hair  untouched  by  grey, 

Are  all  that's  left  her  now,  alas  ! 

Of  that  far  distant  springtime  day. 

The  azure  eyes  that  time  has  paled, 

Look  now  with  trust  "beyond  these  tears," 

Nor  grief  has  wrought  nor  woe  prevailed 
To  slay  the  faith  of  early  years. 

To  quench  the  spirit's  deathless  glow, 
That  sings  until  its  journey's  through, 

Though  tempests  toss  and  wild  winds  blow, 
That  "Life  was  fair,  and  Love  is  true." 


119 


ElEN/NGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


Sarab  E.  1bowart>. 


SEPTEMBER. 

Again  the  orchards  hold  to  view 

A  tempting,  luscious  prize,— 
A  wealth  of  fruit  that  ruddy  grew 

Beneath  the  summer  skies. 
The  grape  leaves,  curling,  crisp  and  brown. 
Display  the  vineyard's  purpling  crown. 

A  sharpness  in  the  morning  air, — 

A  beauty  new  that  thrills- 
Rich  gleams  of  gold  and  scarlet  where 

Are  wooded  vales  and  hills; 
And  by  the  roadside  yellow  plumes 
Of  golden-rod,  and  aster  blooms. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ROSES. 

I  slept,  and  the  mystical  beings  of  dreamland. 

Wove  fancies  to  charm  me,  so  life-like  and  dear, 
I  wandered  delighted  through  magical  seem-land. 

And  all  was  as  naught  that  encompassed  me  here. 
The  snow  hid  the  prairies— there  grasses  were  waving, 

The  storm-wind  was  moaning— there  birds  were  in  tune, 
And  flower-fringed  river-banks,  waters  were  laving, 

For  midnight  in  winter  was  morning  in  June. 


SARAH  E.  HOWARD. 

I  stood  by  the  home  of  rny  childhood ;— the  roses 

Still  over  the  windows  and  roof  clambered  free; 
The  wide  open  door  to. my  vision  discloses 

My  mother's  loved  face  beaming  welcomes  to  me 
The  white  picket  fence  by  the  roses  half  hidden, 

The  bushes  of  "cinnamon,"  yellow  and  white, 
The  "old-fashioned  roses" — gold-hearted— unchidden 

Ran  over  their  boundaries  and  blossomed  in  sight. 


I  stood  as  one  gazing  entranced  at  a  painting; 

To  look  on  the  scene  was  a  pleasure — was  bliss. 
I  plucked  not  the  roses,  I  claimed  not,  through  fainting 

With  longings  to  gain  it,  my  mother's  fond  kiss. 
The  pictures  in  life  may  be  fleeting  and  fading — 

The  scene  in  my  dream  is  still  vivid  and  clear, 
I  cherish  in  mind,  every  line,  every  shading — 

In  all  of  my  wand'rings  that  picture  is  dear. 


The  white  picket  fence  with  the  roses  half  hidden, 
The  bushes  of  "cinnamon,"  yellow  and  white, 

The  "old-fashioned  roses"— gold-hearted— unchidden, 
That  out-ran  their  boundaries  and  blossomed  in  sight; 

The  hundred-leafed  rose,  and  the  rose  of  the  prairie, 
The  rose-covered  cottage  I  always  shall  see; 

The  form  of  my  mother — the  home-making  fairy- 
All,  all  make  a  picture  that  fades  not  with  me. 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


LIFE. 

Thou,  Life,  art  not  a  dream; 
Nor  yet  a  wavering  light 
That  goeth  out  in  night 

Stern,  rugged  places  seam 

Thy  way.    Still  from  it  gleam 
Prophetic  rays,  too  bright 
To  perish.    To  our  sight 

Thou  art  a  flowing  stream 

With  chances  freighted.    He 
Who  bravely  takes  a  stand, 

And  dares  to  strive  and  be, 
Builds  not  upon  the  sand- 
But  chances  great  and  grand, 

He  finds,  dear  Life,  in  thee. 


TO  A  BABY. 

"Upon  life's  tossing,  stormy  sea, 
Whereon  to  sailor  brave,  or  bold, 
No  chart  or  compass,  way  has  told, 

Frail,  tiny  bark,  we  welcome  thee. 

With  rocks  and  shoals  on  bow  and  lea. 
No  sight  prophetic,  course  can  take, 
Nor  tell  what  harbor  thou  shalt  make, 

Save  his.  who  bade  thee,  child,  to  be. 

122 


SARAH  E.  HOWARD. 

The  good  and  true  are  in  thy  heart; 

List  to  their  voices;  they  shall  guide; 
Be  of  their  very  souls  a  part, 

And  clouds  shall  fade  and  sorrows  hide, 
And  human  love,  and  Love  Divine, 
Shall  hold  and  keep  thee;  they  are  thine. 


"OUT   OF   THE  DEPTHS." 

Out  of  the  depths  of  my  soul  a  voice  is  calling,  entreating, 
Oh,  Mother  Nature,  make  thou  some  of  thy  mysteries  mine  ! 
Lend  me  thy  guidance;  thy  laws,  the  beauty  and  power  in 

thee  meeting, 
Open  my  vision  to  see;    I  would  be  student  of  thine. 

O'er  me  the  beautiful  heavens  with  myriad  planets  are 
glowing; 

'Neath  me  the  bountiful  earth,  teeming  with  wonders  un 
told; 

Out  of  the  depths  of  the  sea  come  voices  thy  awfulness 
showing; 

Even  the  least  of  thy  works,  pages  of  marvels  unfold. 

Oh  that  my  ears  had  the  gift  to  the  soul  of  thy  music  to 

listen; 
Oh  that  my  heart  had  the  power  thy  teachings  of  love  to 

enfold; 
Then  would  my  vision  grow  clear,  and  through  the  dark 

shadows  would  glisten 
Truths  that  would  help  me  to  live — that  are  old  as  the 

mountains  are  old. 

123 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Who  can  declare  but  a  tree  has  a  language  and  voice  in 

its  growing? 
Who  can  declare  that  the  grass  has  never  a  song  as  it 

springs? 
Ears  we  may  have  but  we  hear  not;  eyes  that  are  bright, 

yet  not  knowing 
Half  of  the  truth  of  our  lives,  so  many  the  dim,  hidden 

things. 

The  morning  stars  sang  all  together,  ages  ago,  it  is  told  us; 
Little  can  we  understand;   dull  are  our  earthly-filled  ears; 
Not  till  the  mortal  is  dropped  and  the  spiritual  senses  en 
fold  us, 
Can  we  expect  to  awake — awake  to  the  music  of  spheres. 


124 


DAVID  BOYD. 


THE     LEUCOCRINUM.* 


Fair  Leucocrinum,  lilly  of  the  plain, 
How  modestly  your  virgin  sepals  peep 

Between  your  leaves  refreshed  with  recent  rain — 
Your  fine  nerved  leaves  that  lowly  creep  ! 

Around  your  steniless  blossoms  pure  and  bright 
As  if  to  spread  a  carpet  rich  and  rare 

To  keep  your  snowy  calyx  perfect  white — 
For  golden  anthers  wrought  a  chalice  fair. 

What  virtue  lurks  in  graceful  form  of  thine, 
And  colors  mingled  gold  and  green  and  white, 

To  make  these  strong  affections  round  thee  twine, 
As  soothed  the  lingering  eye  drinks  fresh  delights? 

I  know  thee  well,  a  harbinger  of  spring, 
A  bringer  of  glad  tidings  from  the  fields 

Where  other  buds  in  prudent  waiting  cling 
Within  their  gummy  scales,  last  winter's  shields. 


*Leucocrintitn  is  the  botancial  name  of  what  is  commonly  called  the 
"white  crocus."  It  belongs  to  the  lily  and  not  the  crocus  family  Leucocri 
num  means  "white  petaled" — but  it  is  apetalous,  the  sepals  colored  as  petals. 

125 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Nor  this,  nor  dearer  hint  you  seem  to  bring, 
That  death  for  us  is  but  a  wintry  chill, 

Dissolved  at  last  by  some  returning  spring, 
Renewing  consciousness  and  regnant  will. 

Perennial  as  thy  root  and  crown  appear, 
Fair  Leucocrinum,  yet  there  comes  a  May 

When  spring  in  vain  for  thee  unlocks  the  year, 
No  sup  of  thine  shall  feel  its  quickening  ray. 


Nor  at  thy  personal  ending  soul  repine; 

In  gen'rous  self-forgetfullness  rejoice 
That  kindred  hearts  will  throb  to  love  as  thine 

And  other  ears  shall  gladden  at  her  voice. 


From  nature's  overflowing  heart  shall  well 
A  stream  of  love,  perennial  as  the  tide 

Which  has  its  never  ceasing  fall  and  swell 
While  sun  and  moon  its  liquid  atoms  guide. 


No  false  illusions  lure  my  heart  to  thee; 

I  love  thee  for  thy  beauty's  sake  alone, 
Though,  all  unconscious  of  this  off'ring  free, 

You  can  no  rnoi-e  respond  than  lifeless  stone. 


And  why  may  not  the  love  that's  offered  up 
To  yonder  maiden's  beauty,  be  the  same 

As  this  I  breathe  into  the  lilly's  cup? 
Since  she  is  all  unconscious  of  a  flame 

126 


DAVID  BOYD. 

That  glows  without  a  hope  that  any  day 
Responsive  love  may  own  the  kindred  spell. 

Such  love  nor  asks  nor  thinks  of  other  pay, 
Its  rich  reward  the  pulse's  fuller  swell. 

Disinterested  love,  as  pure  from  dross 
As  native  gold  which  crystal  rocks  embed, 

By  no  corrosive  care  may  suffer  loss, 
Until  in  throbbing  heart  the  beat  is  dead. 


IN   MEMOBIAM. 


As  time  sweeps  by  and  robs  you  of  the  faces 
That  erst  enriched  your  life  with  smiles  and  graces, 
May  these  sweet  pictures  which  the  sunbeam  traces, 
Keep  warm  their  memories  for  the  soul's  embraces. 

THE  ABOVE  LINES  WERE  WRITTEN  BY  THE  AUTHOR  IN  HIS 
DAUGHTER  EVANTHIE'S  PHOTOGRAPH  ALBUM  ON  PRESENTING  IT 
TO  HBR,  NEW  YEAR'S  MORNING  OF  1 888.  ON  HER  DEATH  THE 
ENSUING  OCTOBER,  HE  WROTE  THE  FOLLOWING  : 

The  lines  above  betray  illusive  hopes— 
The  May-morn  promise  of  a  sunny  day. 
Remote  to  me  appeared  the  western  slopes 
On  which  its  brilliant  light  would  fade  away. 

The  first  of  all  those  youthful  faces  thine 
To  lose  its  bloom,  to  wither,  pine  and  waste; 

To  lose  affection's  tracings,  free  and  fine, 
To  have  its  bright  intelligence  erased. 

127 


EYENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

The  first  of  all  that  brilliant  sisterhood  * 
Whose  highest  honors  crowned  thy  proud  young  head, 

To  sink  beneath  the  all-engulfing  flood, 
Life's  feast,  just  tasted,  full  before  thee  spread. 

One  hour  supreme  of  glorious  gladness  thine, 
When  borne  on  thought's  and  feeling's  currents  strong 

You  quaffed  the  spirit's  bright  ethereal  wine — 
The  joy  of  face-transfigured  list'niug  throng. 

This  hour  was  worth  an  age  of  listless  life; 

A  long,  dull,  dragging  life  you  did  not  crave. 
You  fancied  that  your  beck'uing  years  were  rife 

With  stimuli  that  lead  to  early  grave. 

But  this  grand  hour  seemed  morn  to  many  more — 

A  promise  of  the  noontide's  fuller  light; 
Foretaste  of  moments  more  intense  in  store, 

When  ripened  powers  achieve  the  summit's  height. 

"The  baseless  fabric  of  a  dream"  appears, 
The  splendid  purpose  beaming  in  those  eyes: 

The  future  hark'uing  of  those  wistful  ears, 
A  phantasy  that  lures  an  hour  and  dies. 

We  sat  and  watched  the  lips  grow  thin  and  pale, 
The  speech  come   painful   to  the  numbed   tongue. 

But  could  not  think  that  strength  and  tone  would  fail 
To  come  again  to  one  so  brave  and  young. 

*The  Greeley  High  School  class  of  1887  was  composed  of  ten  girls  and  only  one 
boy. 

128 


DAViD   BOYD. 


DAVID  BOYD. 

The  ear  grew  dull  and  caught  our  voice  with  pain, 
The  eyes  grew  dim  and  felt  a  failing  light; 

They  told  of  worn  and  weary  wasted  brain, 
Of  consciousness  fast  sinking  into  night. 

At  last  the  slow  and  slower  hard-drawn  breath, 
The  languid  pulse,  the  cold  sweat  on  the  brow, 

The  sense  of  touch  extinct  showed  hovering  death 
Was  slowly  settling  o'er  its  victim  now. 

The  clinging  hand  responds  to  mine  no  more, 
A  silent  last  farewell  it  feebly  said; 

Faint  recognition  ling'ring  on  the  shore 
Within  that  clasp,  from  palm  and  fingers  fled. 

Soon  all  is  o'er.    The  last  long  breath  exhaled, 
The  pulse  is  still,  the  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, 

The  glassy  eyes  the  ether  waves  assailed 
In  vain.     There  was  no  spirit  there  to  greet. 


With  weary,  sleepless  brain  and  sad,  sore  heart, 

I  bow  before  death's  stem  reality. 
The  inner  life  pines  for  its  severed  part, 
But  wails  in  vain  to  deaf  mortality. 

The  All  is  heartless,  bleak  inanity; 

It  hears  no  prayers,  is  blind  to  falling  tears; 
To  praise  or  blame  it  were  insanity, 

For  what  to  it  our  few  or  many  years  ! 

129 


EVEXINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

I  know  it  were  a  pleasing  thought  indeed 
To  think  of  spirit  clothed  in  warmth  and  light, 

Its  movement  rapid  as  the  sunbeam's  speed, 
Its  course  as  dazzling  as  the  lightning's  flight. 

Its  contact  with  the  thing  it  loves  complete — 

An  iuterpenetration  each  in  each. 
No  fatal  consequences  to  defeat 

Love's  raptures  ere  the  goal  we  reach. 

To  think  that  universal  thought  indwells- 
Its  vesture  these  pulsating  ether  waves 

Which  penetrate  the  brain's  gray  cells — 
Can  feel  the  wants  our  "inner  being  craves, 

Can  ht'lp  us  to  the  utmost  in  our  need. 
And  wills  our  highest  weal  as  father  kind, 
And  loves  to  grant  us  what  we  wisely  plead — 
Such  thought  were  succor  to  a  grief-struck  mind. 

This  fond,  illusive  fancy  once  was  mine— 
The  child's  inheritance  from  childish  age, 

But  universal  Father,  named  divine, 
Now  seems  but  fetich  of  the  twilight  sage. 

Birth  of  the  fancy  of  the  dreamy  East, 
Brahm,  phantom  spirit  of  the  cosmic  whole, 

Still  lingers  in  the  vision  of  the  priest 
And  mystic,  fount  of  life,  and  thought,  and  soul. 

The  Kosmos  owes  its  form  and  attitude  to-day 

To  unbeginning.  all-persistent  force; 
Behind  the  scene  I  see  no  free  will's  play, 

No  pilot's  hand  or  eye  to  guide  its  course. 

130 


DAVID  BOYD. 

This  ceaseless  change,  this  flux  and  flow  of  form, 

Is  outcome  of  the  atoms'  energy; 
It  shapes  the  clouds  that  frown  above  the  storm 

And  plies  the  loom  that  weaves  life's  tragedy. 

To  us  no  help  can  come  from  yonder  sky, 
No  spirits  hovering  round  can  hear  our  cry. 

No  heart  save  human  feel  our  sorrow's  sigh, 
No  hand  save  human  wipe  a  weeping  eye. 

In  human  sympathy  is  found  alone 
Such  solace  as  may  come  to  life's  sad  lot; 

By  kindly  eyes,  by  speech's  balmy  tone, 
By  clinging  hands  up-holding,  strength  is  brought. 

"Is  this  life  all?    Then  let  us  pitch  it  high."* 
What  beauty,  sweetness,  strength  the  germs  enclose 

Let  each  unfold  in  blossom  ere  we  die, 
And  leave  a  fragrance  like  the  withered  rose. 

*Matthew  Arnold. 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


William 


THE  SILENT  SONG. 

O,  ask  me  not  to  sing  to-night 

The  song  I  sung  in  happier  years. 
The  words  would  only  come  in  sobs, 

Each  note  would  be  all  wet  with  tears; 
These  fingers  could  not  touch  the  harp 

Now,  but  to  win  from  every  string 
Such  music  as  the  lark  might  breathe, 

Drooped  o'er  its  nest  with  broken  wing. 
There  is  no  joy,  not  memory  e'en— 

No  sunny  days— night's  starry  shine — 
Not  fondly  linked  to  that  sweet  song, 

Thro'  all  this  lonely  life  of  mine. 

But  bid  me  sing  some  gladsome  song, 

All  full  of  laughter,  careless,  free- 
Some  gleeful  thing  all  breeze,  and  light 

As  sunshine  o'er  the  summer  sea — 
Or  some  gay  song  that  mocks  at  life 

And  laughs  at  tears  and  eare  and  pain, 
And  scoffs  at  love  and  woman's  smiles — 

I'll  sing  it  in  a  merry  vein. 
Or  bid  me  join  the  joyous  dance, 
.     Where  hearts  are  glad  and  feet  are  light, 
And  music  throbs  and  jests  are  blithe — 

I  cannot  sing  that  song  to-night 

132 


WILLIAM  GLENDINNING. 

Here  in  this  self-same  brilliant  hall, 

'Mid  dazzling  lights  and  bloom  of  flowers, 
And  flashing  smiles  from  crimson  lips, 

While  music  sped  the  fleeting  hours, 
I  last  sang  that  old  tender  song, 

My  lost,  fair  darling  sitting  there. 
The  light  lay  o'er  her  bonnie  face, 

And  gleamed  bright  on  her  red  gold  hair, 
While  in  her  dusky  eyes  methought 

There  lingered  love  that  was  all  mine. 
Ah  !    as  well  might  you  poor  foolish  heart 

Put  trusting  faith  in  false  red  wine. 


And  ever  since  that  old  sweet  song 

Lies  buried  in  my  heart's  deep  core, 
'Mong  memories  of  a  golden  dream 

That  comes  to  bless  my  days  no  more; 
The  only  relic  of  that  dream, 

And  which  I  hoard  with  "miser  care," 
Is  this  wee  bit  of  ribbon  blue, 

Tied  round  this  tress  of  gold  bronze  hair. 
That  song  shall  never  pass  these  lips, 

'Tis  sacred  to  that  hollowed  past, 
And  to  a  gladness  dead  for  aye— 

A  joy  that  was  too  sweet  to  last. 


Oh  !  we  may  laugh  and  we  may  sing, 
And  we  may  join  in  the  festive  dance; 

And  hand  may  warmly  clasp  a  hand, 

E'en  lip  touch  lip  and  glance  meet  glance, 

133 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Yet  never  know  bow  hard  it  is 

For  each  to  hide  u  pain  iii  this. 
Each  knows  not  what  the  other's  siuile 

May  cost  to  shield  a  broken  bliss; 
The  heart  its  sorrow  silent  knows, 

And  to  itself  'tis  only  known, 
Nor  dreams  that  e'er  another  may 

Have  griefs  far  deeper  than  its  own. 


OH,  MENTION  NOT! 


Oh!  mention  not  her  name  to  me, 

Tho'  to  my  heart  'tis  sweet; 
It  only  adds  a  deeper  pain 

To  every  anguished  beat; 
Not  only  now,  but  evermore. 

That  name  must  silent  be. 
A  world  of  wordless  thoughts  and  dreams 

Lie  in  it  aye  for  me; 
You  would  not  wake  a  resting  heart 

Just  but  to  give  it  pain? 
Oh  !    peace — be  still  !   to  me  no  more 

E'er  breathe  that  name  again. 


And  she  was  fair— so  very  fair- 
Love  seemed  in  every  grace — 

In  touch  of  that  wee  jeweled  hand- 
All  o'er  that  glad,  sweet  face — 

134 


WILLIAM  GLENDINNING. 

Iii  glance  of  that  dear  eye  of  blue, 

Bright  as  the  sheen  of  sea — 
In  every  tress  of  silken  hair— 

And  all,  methought  for  me; 
I  could  not  think— 1  never  dreamt — 

That  in  that  winsome  smile 
Could  e'er  hide  aught  that  was  not  mine, 

Or  aught  that  was  of  guile. 

Why  should  the  fairest  oft  be  false!— 

The  dearest  prove  untrue?— 
Why  should  a  poison  often  lurk 

In  blooms  of  brightest  hue? 
But  so  it  is— and  many  a  heart 

Thro'  lone  years  wonders  why 
That  all  its  wealth  was  rendered  up 

To  hopes  born  but  to  die; 
Oh  !  pray  be  still,  that  name  is  dear— 

So  wondrous  dear  to  me!— 
I  love  it  yet,  but  speak  it  not 

Thro'  all  the  days  to  be. 


SING  TO   ME,   MOTHER. 

Sing  to  me,  mother,  I'm  weary  to-night, 

Sing  once  again  the  old  lullaby  songs, 
Your  hand  'mong  the  tangled  threads  of  my  hair, 

Gray,  ah,  so  soon,  with  life's  sorrows  and  wrongs. 
Croon  the  old  cradle  songs  softly  and  low, 

Your  lips  near  my  cheek,  my  head  on  your  breast, 
In  the  old  tender  voice — the  sweet  Scottish  tongue 

That  lulled  all  the  storms  of  my  boyhood  to  rest; 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

I'm  tired — oh,  so  tired  !   the  day  has  been  long. 

And  lonely  the  care  and  thankless  the  toil; 
How   brain   has   throbbed   and   heart   weary   grown, 

To  find  but  a  frown  where  I  hoped  for  a  smile. 


Sing— let  there  coine  o'er  the  waste  of  years  lone, 

Like  a  perfume  forgotten,  one  lullaby  song, 
The  mother-love-light  in  your  own  bonuie  eyes, 

In  tones  that  the  daisies  have  hidden  so  long; 
'Twill  bring  back  the  golden  grace  of  dead  days, 

That  else  will  never  return  to  me, 
When  earth  owned  naught  sweeter  than   i-arol  of  bird, 

Bright  bloom  of  heather  and  glad  hum  of  bee. 
Sing  to  me,  mother,  and  let  me  forget 

The  day's  hollow  shams— its  battle  for  gold- 
Its  ruthless  ambition— its  scorn  of  the  good — 

Its  falsehood  of  smiles— its  friendship  grown  cold. 


Sing  to  me,  mother,  my  eager  eyes  close 

Just  for  this  once  let  me  dream  without  care; 
Your  kiss  on  my  brow  will  hush  haunting  thoughts, 

And  bring  back  the  glossy  brown  curls  to  my  hair; 
Ah,  mother  !   since  last  your  touch  lingering  lay 

Like  scented  blossom  so  light  on  my  head, 
Life  has  been  hard— my  trust  oft  betrayed— 

Fair  hopes  have  faded— love  laid  with  the  dead; 
Clasp  me  yet  closer— no  heart  that  e'er  beat 

Pressed  close  to  mine,  was  so  tender  and  leal; 
No  kiss  like  your  own  that  kept  faith  thro'  it  all, 

In  storm  and  in  shine— in  woe  and  in  weal. 

136 


WILLIAM   GLENDINNING. 

My  heart  cries  aloud  for  you,  mother,  to-night, 

Shadows  within  and  without  darkly  fall; 
There  comes  no  reply,  but  your  pictured  face 

In  the  firelight  shines  on  my  dusky  wall; 
Oh,  wise  wistful  lips,  with  their  wordless  love, 

Breathing  from  every  curve  and  line  ! 
Oh,  gentle  eyes,  with  a  prayer  in  them  now, 

For  restful  days  that  can  never  be  mine  ! 
Where  does  that  loved  face  hallow  to-night, 

As  star-kissed  gloaming  creeps  over  the  lawn? 
Beyond  the  far  blue  or  the  glittering  stars? 

Or  beyond  the  home  of  the  golden  dawn? 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


Cbarles  jfletcbcr  Hllen, 


BEFORE   SEDAN— THE   UHLAN'S   DREAM. 


"The  falling  of  darkness  has  covered  the  sea 

That  lies  by  the  Swabian  land; 
I  fancy  the  rustle  of  leaf  aud  tree, 
The  rush  and  roar  and  the  tuneful  glee 

Of  waters  along  the  strand; 
The  broad  Seefelden  are  still  in  gloom, 

Save  when  at  times  in  the  moon's  white  glare, 
The  bittern's  voice  like  a  distant  boom, 

Rolls  hoarsely  by  on  the  westward  air. 

"I  dream  this  all  with  closed  eyes,  • 
No  more  resounds  the  sentry's  tread, 
Pale  moonlight  crouches  o'er  the  dead, 

And  fairest  Peace  rules  all  the  skies; 

My  comrades  hear  the  distant  fray— 

I  know  they  sometimes  watch  and  start; 

And  yet  the  sound  is  far  away. 

• 
I  only  hear  my  beating  heart; 

"The  campfires  burning  far  below 

Fade  ever  on  my  sight; 
Mine  eyes  grow  dimmer  in  their  glow. 
And  louder  still  the  billows  flow 

Beneath  the  Swabian  height. 

138 


CHARLES  FLETCHER  ALLEN. 

Sweet  dreams  of  bright  and  blessed  things, 
Of  home  and  love  and  flashing  wine — 
Of  dewy  lips  half  raised  to  mine — 

Press  down  my  head  with  snowy  wings. 

And  yet  there  is  one  sweetest  dream, 
That  deepest  thrills  my  longing  soul; 

I  fancy  then  by  Argen's  stream 

I  hear  its  waters  downward  roll; 

I  feel  the  warmth  of  her  fair  hand 

Whose  love  is  all  of  heaven  I  crave; 

We  sit  again  beside  the  strand— 

We  watch  the  ships  along  the  wave. 


"Sometimes  it  seems  our  love  is  like 

A  dimly  stretching  sea, 
Whereon  all  sailors  launch  alike. 

Their  port— a  mystery; 
'Tis  strange  with  what  a  ready  hand 

They  set  the  surging  sail; 
They  smile  and  vanish  from  the  land, 

And  bless  the  swifter  gale. 
So  like  a  sea  !   we  hear  the  flood 

Come  pushing  at  our  feet; 
We  float  away  from  where  we  stood, 

Yet  still  we  hear  it  beat. 
We  sail  two  ships— my  love  and  I, 

Mine  here— we  sail  alone; 
I  may  not  guide  the  swaying  helm, 

I  know  our  port  is  one: 

T39 


E  YEN  INGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Somewhere — within  the  coming  laud 
That  yet  I  cannot  plainly  see — 
We  two  shall  sail  upon  the  strand, 
And  leapiug  out  pass  hand  in  hand 

Through  years,  oh  happy  years  !— to  be." 

So  ceased  the  voice — the  chilly  dew 

Had  pressed  his  eyelids  into  sleep; 
The  cold  night  wind  that  hoarsely  blew, 

And  Availed  as  sometimes  men  may  weep, 
Had  nought  of  cold  nor  care  for  him 

Who  heard  it  from  his  mountain  bed, 
As  some  great  choral,  far  and  dim. 

That  spirits  chant  above  the  dead; 
And  through  the  dark  and  bloody  fray, 

That  crowned  the  gleam  of  German  arms. 
His  dream  was  ever  as  the  day 

That  breaks  upon  the  night's  alarms; 
A  guardian  angel  robed  in  white, 

That  led  him  ever  safe  and  free — 
Sweet  spirit  of  the  battle  night, 

We  praise  the  God  that  giveth  thee  ! 


INTER    VIAS. 

I  fear  the  mount  that  grimly  lies 

Before  my  worn  and  weary  feet, 
Where  only  mockingly  the  skies 
Stoop  low  as  if  elated  eyes, 

Beyond  the  roseate  cirrous  streak 
Whose  fire  englows  the  awful  peak, 
Might  see  the  gates  of  heaven  meet. 

140 


CHARLES  FLETCHER  ALLEN. 

For  I  have  climbed  such  heights  before, 

Athirst  and  faint,  but  heart  afire 
To  see  some  blest,  enchanted  shore 
Of  rest,  and  rest  forever  more; 

Yet  always,  when  the  cliff  I  scaled, 
The  hopeless  path  but  stretched  and  failed 
Where  other  mountains  lifted  higher. 

Eternal  mountains  !    restful  vales  ! 

Where  fortune  rules  a  doubtful  land, 
Some  height  perchance  the  traveller  scales 
Where  life  leads  on  in  flowery  trails; 

Ah  !    then  the  grinning  fates  are  kind 
If  haply  death  be  far  behind, 
And  youth  still  linger  hand  in  hand. 


MANON    LESCAULT. 

Here  at  the  midway  gates  of  night 
My  love  lies  in  the  dimming  sun, 

Her  radiant  face  grown  sad  and  white, 

And  her  fair  hair  in  blending  light, 

Like  some  tired,  careless  angel's  crown, 

Showered  on  the  sand  in  tresses  bright. 

Dear  weary  feet  that  vainly  tried 
In  faith  and  love  the  desert  gray; 

And  sweetest  eyes  that  only  spied 

Kind  flowers  where  sullen  serpents  lay; 
It  may  be  better  you  should  rest 

To-night,  and  never  know  the  day. 

141 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

The  brazen  portals  of  the  world 

Were  closed  behind  our  wandering  feet; 

The  wild  Atlantic's  billows  curled 
About  \is  like  a  winding  sheet- 
Here  was  the  wrath  of  man  complete; 

The  gates  of  God  are  opened  wide 

For  one  to  priestly  aid  denied. 


To-night  the  Southern  Cross  will  lift 
Above  thy  head  its  holy  riaine; 

If  this  be  not  than  earthly  shrift 

More  potent,  thou  are  free  from  blame; 
There  is  no  cloud  of  stain  or  shame 

About  thy  fleeting  soul  to  drift. 


Here  is  thy  grave,  my  angel  dead, 

Trenched  in  the  widening  desert  sands; 

Here  will  I  lay  thy  peerless  head, 
Here  fold  thy  unresponsive  hands; 
Thou  rarest  flower  of  sunny  lauds, 

I  would  be  rather  in  thy  stead. 


I  who  have  kissed  these  tender  eyes 

Behold  them  closed  at  last; 
How.  then,  shall  one  so  stricken  rise 

When  this  black,  lingering  night  is  past? 

My  soul  is  bound  in  fetters  fast 
Where  all  her  mortal  beauty  lies. 

142 


CHARLES  FLETCHER  ALLEN 

I  heap  the  sand  upon  her  breast, 
And  on  her  shining  hair; 

On  every  silent  hour  of  rest, 
On  every  hopeless  prayer; 
And  in  my  darkness  and  despair 

I  know  God's  gift  is  best. 


A   COLORADO    PHILOSOPHER. 


He  stood  by  the  fence  of  a  mountain  ranch, 

A  pitiful,  sad-eyed  burro; 
There  wasn't  an  edible  leaf  or  branch, 
And  the  alkali  ground 
For  miles  around 

Had  never  a  sign  of  furrow. 
"Ah,  me  !"  he  sighed,  "I  am  sad  it's  so, 

But  life  is  an  endless  tussle; 
They  have  let  me  go  in  the  storm  and  snow 

For  they  know  I  am  used  to  rustle  ! 

"I  can  go  a  day  on  a  sardine  can, 
And  two  on  a  scrap  of  leather; 
And  it's  even  plain 
That  I  sometimes  gain 
On  only  a  change  of  weather. 
The  lazy  ones  feed— on  hay — indeed; 

But  I  who  have  nerve  and  muscle — 

They  say,  "He'll  do;  he  will  worry  Through; 

He's  a  wonderful  brute  to  rustle." 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

O,  sorrowful  burro  !   Thin  and  sad  ! 

I  feel  to  you  like  a  brother, 
With  the  human  race  it  is  just  as  bad; 
For  the  tramp  and  shirk 
Must  escape  from  work 

By  the  bountiful  sweat  of  another. 
There  are  some  that  stand  with  glove  in  hand 

In  the  infinite  toil  and  bustle; 
They  sing  and  play,  but  they've  lots  of  hay— 

They  have  never  learned  to  rustle. 


144 


EMMA   GHENT  CURTIS. 


EMMA  GHENT  CURTIS. 


Emma  <5bent  Curtis, 


BUCKHORN    CACTUS. 

I  ride  to-day 

Long  miles  away 

Where  buckhorn  tall  and  spreading  grows; 

And  iu  her  crimson  bloom  I  see 
The  rival  of  the  hot-house  rose. 

Her  heart  of  gold — 

Its  wealth  untold — 

Deep  in  her  glowing  tunic  hides; 

And  in  her  waxen,  dew-damp  cup 
The  charm  of  endless  grace  abides. 

O,  bloom  so  fair! 

Breathe  to  the  air 

The  story  of  your  lonely  home, 

Where  mountains  shade  and  sunlight  dreams 
And  cattle  low  and  coyotes  roam. 

Noon  after  noon 
You  sadly  croon 
Since  no  admiring  eye  you  see; 

But  beauty  tempts.    O,  foolish  one, 
Beware  the  eye  that  looks  on  thee! 

He's  riding  near, 

O,  list,  and  hear 

The  jingling  of  the  cowboy's  spur; 

His  day  dream  holds  a  lady  fair- 
He  deems  the  mountains  bloom  for  her. 

U5 


EyENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

The  glowing  sun 

His  course  will  run. 

The  lazy  afternoon  will  wane; 

And  withering  on  the  lady's  breast 
You'll  tell  your  captor's  crime  in  vain. 

O,  bloom  so  fair! 

Breathe  to  the  air 

Your  sad,  unheeded,  fainting  sigh; 

And  hope  the  human  love  you  bind 
May  not  so  early  fade  and  die. 

You  deemed  your  thorn 
Would  check  and  warn 
The  hand  that  wrought  your  heavy  grief; 

But  blades  shield  not  such  grace  as  yours— 
Ah,  sad  your  story  is  so  brief  ! 


MESTEZO'S    SADDLE    SONG. 


Oh,  blue  is  the  mountain 

And  blue  is  the  sky, 
Bright  green  spreads  the  vale 

Where  our  low  casas  lie; 
The  mesa  is  brown 

Where  my  burros  range  free — 
Fit  scene  for  the  love 

Of  Joseph  a  and  me. 

146 


EMMA  GHENT  CURTIS. 

In  a  gorge  of  the  mountains 

The  doe  hides  her  fawn, 
But  where  will  I  hide 

When  to-morrow  shall  dawn? 
For  Benito  has  sworn 

To  set  my  soul  free — 
He  is  mad  for  the  love 

That  Josepha  gives  me. 

Oh,  Donna  Josepha 

Recks  not  of  my  faults, 
And  to-night  she  has  promised 

To  give  me  a  waltz. 
His  virtue  is  wealth, 

My  one  crime  poverty — 
He  is  mad  for  the  love 

That  Josepha  gives  me. 

He  has  sworn  that  at  midnight 

The  sky  shall  be  red 
With  the  flames  of  my  home 

While  I  cower  in  dread; 
But  come  ruin  and  death, 

Come  weal  or  come  woe, 
To  the  waltz,  to  the  waltz, 

With  Josepha  I'll  go. 

He  has  sworn  that  to-morrow 
Shall  witness  my  fall; 

That  vultures  shall  find  me 
Where  pine  trees  grow  tall; 

147 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

But  come  ruin  and  death 
Come  weal  or  come  woe, 

To  the  waltz,  to  the  waltz, 
With  Josepha  I'll  go. 

Benito  is  cruel 

And  craven  and  old; 
Josepha  is  cast 

In  Venus'  own  mould; 
There  is  light  in  her  eye, 

There  is  love  in  her  glance, 
As  she  yields  to  my  arm 

In  the  willowy  dance. 

Josepha  says  "Come" 

And  Benito  says  "Stay;" 
I'll  heed  fair  Josepha 

Though  death  crown  the  day; 
For  come  life  or  come  death, 

Come  weal  or  come  woe, 
The  waltz  and  Josepha 

I  ne'er  can  forego. 


A  WARNING. 


The  sim  is  just  above  the  ridge, 
The  morn  is  cool  and  sweet, 

And   shadows  from   the  pinons   dark 
Caress  the  mountain's  feet. 

148 


EMMA  GHENT  CURTIS. 

The  lowing  herd  has  strayed  away 

To  graze  the  grassy  plain — 
O  Vaquero,  be  up  and  out, 

To  the  saddle  swing  a^ain! 

Your  restless  herd  has  wandered  far 

From  the  broken  mountain  side — 
O,  Vaquero,  to  horse  at  once 

And  like  the  whirlwind  ride! 
Full  soon  the  sun  is  merciless, 

Your  good  horse  groans  in  pain; 
But  hours  flee  ere  your  task  is  done 

And  your  strays  range  home  again. 

A  cool  draught  from  the  mountain  spring, 
An  hour's  dream  in  the  shade; 

Your  limbs  shake  off  the  weariness 
That  late  your  soul  dismayed. 

Your  jaded  horse  his  freedom  seeks 
.    Where  the  gramma  grass  grows  low; 

But  another  horse  your  weight  will  bear 
Ere  the  winds  of  even  blow. 

O,  not  to  seek  your  horned  herd 

You  thread  the  hills  once  more, 
A  dearer  quest  is  calling  you 

To  the  river's  leafy  shore; 
A  winsome  rider  waits  you  there 

With  eyes  lovelighted  clear — 
Ah,  woo  her  in  the  saddle 

And  you'll  find  a  willing  ear. 

149 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

The  sinking  sun  sends  burning  rays 

To  bathe  the  torrid  park, 
But  the  canon  at  your  feet  lies  deep 

With  its  shadows  cool  and  dark. 
The  maiden's  heart  will  tender  grow 

With  nature's  heart  so  near — 
Ah,  woo  her  in  the  saddle 

And  you'll  find  a  willing  ear. 

Beware  the  spell  that  sways  you  both 

As  you  gallop  side  by  side, 
For  life  sweeps  on  in  roseate  hues 

Too  glowing  to  abide. 
Remember,  stern  reality 

Will  soon  be  lurking  near. 
If  you  woo  her  in  the  saddle 

And  she  lends  a  willing  ear. 


150 


ALICE  POLK  HILL. 


Hlice  polfc  1bilL 


I   AM   NOT   READY   YET. 

In  the  nursery  was  burning  a  tire,  warm  and  bright, 
And  the  lamp  from  above  threw  a  radiant  light, 
On  a  little  boy's  head  with  its  soft  curling  locks, 
He  was  busily  building  his  houses  of  blocks. 
The^e  was  joy  in  his  heart  and  a  smile  in  his  eye, 
And  unheeded  the  fast  flying  moments  went  by. 
"It  is  late,"  said  his  papa,  "you  must  go  to  bed." 
With  a  face  full  of  sorrow  lie  looked  up  and  said: 

"O,  papa,  I  am  not  ready  yet. 

"See  my  house  is  not  finished,  O,  please  let  me  stay." 
He  again  sadly  pleaded  when  going  away: 
"O,  papa  I  am  not  ready  yet." 

And  thus  often  we  see  in  the  nursery  of  life, 
Busy  man  as  intent  upon  pleasure  or  strife, 
That  he  stops  not  to  think  as  the  years  hurry  by, 
There's  a  time  here  to  live,  and  a  time  yet  to  die. 
Building  houses  on  earth,  building  castles  in  air, 
'Tis  but  little  he  recks,  there's  a  time.  too.  for  prayer; 
But  when  called  to  the  slumber  which  closes  his  days. 
With    his    work   all   unfinished    he   earnestly   prays, 

"O,  Father,  I  am  not  ready  yet; 

For  my  soul  I've  neglected.  I  thought  not  of  death." 
And  he  sadly  implores  with  his  last  fleeting  breath: 

O,  Father,  I  am  not  ready  yet." 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

TO    ALICE— MY    NAMESAKE. 

i. 

Fair,  joyous  child,  with  wondrous  eyes, 
The  royal  purple  'round  thee  lies, 
Love's  scepter  strong  is  in  thy  hand. 
Subjects  are  e'er  at  thy  command. 

II. 

No  arrow-word  has  pierced  thy  heart. 
No  faithless  friend  caused  tears  to  start, 
Thy  senses  have  not  felt  the  pain 
Of  anxious  waiting  all  in  vain. 

III. 

Time  fast  or  slow  thy  soul  knows  not, 
Thy  smiles,  thy  tears  are  soon  forgot. 
No  heavy  thoughts  yet  cloud  thy  eyes. 
Thy  stream  of  life  reflects  the  skies. 

IV. 

Look  at  me  now,  in  happy  mood. 
Which  seems  to  whisper,  "All  is  good." 
Yes,  "all  is  good;"   truth  early  sown  ! 
'Twill  light  thy  way  when  youth  has  flown. 

152 


ALICE   POLK   HILL. 


ALICE  POLK  HILL. 
V. 

Dear,  happy  child,  our  queen  thou  art  ! 
Those  rosy  lips,  with  smile  apart, 
I  stoop  to  kiss;    their  touch  is  sweet 
To  loving  lips  that  with  them  meet. 

VI. 

Queen  niay'st  thou  reign  in  future  years, 
Love-crowned  like  Esther  'midst  thy  peers 
Conquer  all  foes  within,  without, 
Until  "Well  done  !"  the  angels  shout. 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

The  angel  voices  of  the  sky 

Which  on  that  holy  night 
Sang,  "Glory  be  to  God  on  High"— 

Still  sing  of  joy  and  light. 

That  light,  whose  clear  and  shining  beam 

Illum'ed  the  shepherd  boy 
And  led  to  him  whose  love  supreme 
Supplants  all  fear  with  joy. 

Oh,  light  divine,  be  ever  near; 

Let  not  thy  rays  grow  dim, 
Till  we,  like  shepherds,  without  fear, 

Through  faith  are  led  to  him. 

153 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


A   FRIEND'S  COUNSEL. 


Thy  heart,  my  friend,  is  sad  to-night, 
But  do  not  wish  the  sorrow  gone; 

Though  deep  thy  grief  to  human  sight, 
'Tis  measured  to  thee  from  the  Throne. 

Despoudiugly   thou   shouldst  not  yield; 

The  birds  of  heaven  in  their  flight 
And  e'en  the  lilies  of  the  field 

In  (iod's  protecting  love  delight. 

Then  calm  thy  heart,  let  contliets  cease, 

In  joy  and  grief  alike  there  lies 
A  lesson,  which,  in  hours  of  peace, 

Will  prove  a  training  for  the  skies. 

Art   mourning   now   a   broken   spell? 

Thy  heart's  young  morning  turned  to  night? 
All  earth  will  change — Ah,  then  'tis  well 

To  pray,  and  save  thy  soul  from  blight. 

Perhaps  thy  love  is  with  the  dead, 
A  living  thought  have  I  for  thee, 

Which  o'er  thy  path  a  light  will  shed— 

'Tis  this:    All  things  that  were  will  be. 

Is  there  a  dark  weight  on  thy   soul, 
Some  fault  that  pains,  or  secret  sin? 

A  sacrifice  there  is.     Control 

The  tempest  raging  high   within. 

154 


ALICE  POLK  HILL. 

The  web  of  life,  with  colors  rare, 
Designed  for  thee  by  hand  divine, 

Shows  beauty  in  the  pattern  where 
The  sombre  with  the  bright  combine. 

S>ome  day  you'll  see  the  web  complete, 
When  all  this  shade,  so  dark,  will  be 

Most  prized;    and  then,  in  chorus  sweet, 
You'll  sing:    "The  Father  loveth  me." 


ElENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


"  (jfits  3amc0 


A  PARTING  BOUT  TO  FIELD. 

ON   LEAVING   THE   DENVER  TRIBUNE   FOR   THE  CHICAGO   NEWS, 
JULY,    1883. 

Here's  a  bowl  before  you  go, 

Eugene  Field. 

Here's  a  bowl  before  you  go, 
And  our  hearts  by  this  you'll  know. 
And— God  bless  the  tears  that  flow 

For  you,  Field. 

God  bless  the  friendly  tears, 

And  God  keep  you  through  the  years, 

Kind  old  Field; 
Unto  you  we  raise  the  cup — 
Fill,  boys,  and  drink  it  up 

To  old  Field. 

To  his  free  and  friendly  smile. 
To  his  wit  that  flows  the  while 
In  a  torrent  without  guile. 

Our  old  Field. 
His  humor  often  burst 
On  foibles  we  had  nursed, 
But  never  man  hath  cursed 

Gentle  Field; 

156 


"  FITZ-MA  C  "    FITZ-JAMES  McCAR  THY 

For  he  knows  so  well  to  bring 
The  laughter  with  a  ring, 
Yet  never  leave  a  sting — 

Does  old  Field, 
That  we  all  forget  his  hits 
And  applaud  his  genial  wits, 
And— God  bless  him,  there  he  sits, 

Sly  old  Field. 

Were  we  women  we  should  kiss 
The  friend  we're  soon  to  miss; 
But  that's  woman's  special  bliss 

With  old  Field. 

So  we'll  only  drink  to  bless  him, 
And  we'll  let  "the  sex"  caress  him 
And  worry  and  distress  him — 

Here's  to  Field. 

We'll  wreathe  your  name  with  posies, 
AVith  evergreens  and  roses, 

Eugene  Field  ! 

Rise,  boys,  and  let  us  cheer  him! 
God  bless  him  and  endear  him 
To  the  friends  that  may  be  near  him, 
Dear  old   Field. 

THE     COQUETTE. 

"Good  night!— ah  let  me  see,"  she  said, 
"You're  leaving  town,  I  b'lieve  you  say? 

Well,  I  have  so  enjoyed  the  ball, 
And— was  not  this  a  pleasant  day? 
Good  night!" 

157 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

She  made  a  move  to  pass  me  by, 

Her  slippered  foot  was  on  the  stair, 

I  seized  her  jeweled  hand  in  mine 

And  begged  the  rose  from  out  her  hair. 

She  was  a  peerless  flirt  they  said 

And  knew  the  arts  that  can  beguile; 

She  took  the  flower  from  her  hair 
And  gave  it  with  a  queenly  smile. 

I  raised  her  fingers  to  my  lips; 

She,  archly  mocking  sadness,  said: 
"You'll  think  of  me  sometimes.  I  hope, 

At  least  until  that  flower  is  dead?" 

I  clasped  her  form,  I  told  my  love. 

I  vowed  I  never  could  forget— 
A  glistening  tear  stood  in  her  eyt>. 

She  murmured  something  of  regret. 

'Twas  but  a  moment  thus  we  stood, 
She  quickly  drew  herself  away 

And.  leaning  o'er  the  balustrade. 

Said:   "This  has  been  a  pleasant  day; 
Good  night!" 


AN    EXQUISITE    SORROW. 

I  slept  the  while  my  love  was  waking, 
I  slept  and  oh,  my  love  went  by, 
And  not  a  tear  in  that  proud  eye, 

Although  I  knew  her  heart  was  breaking. 

158 


"F/7'Z-MAC"    FITZ.-JAMES  McCARTHY. 

My  proud  fair  love,  so  tender  hearted! 

She  would  not  one  should  say  she  wept! 

I  curse  me  that  I  could  have  slept, 
And  only  waked  to  find  us  parted. 

I  may  not  haste  and  overtake  her, 

For  we  must  ever  bide  apart; 

But  oh,  it  grieves  me  to  the  heart 
That  she  should  think  I  could  forsake  her. 


My  yearning  arms  reach  out  a-toward  her, 
Across  the  abyss  that  parts  our  ways; 
I  grieve  to  think  of  those  sweet  days 

When  she  believed  that  I  adored  her. 


Oh,  love,  dear  love,  my  voice  it  calls  thee, 
Come  back  across  that  dark  abyss, 
And  I  Avill  meet  thee  with  a  kiss— 

The  echo  of  my  voice  appalls  me! 


L'ENVOI. 

Love  stands  above  the  grave  of  passion 
And  smiles  a  sad,  regretful  smile; 
But  memory  comes  and  raves  the  while 

In  anguished  tones  and  bitter  fashion. 


'59 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


FORGET  MY  WORDS. 

TO  THE   MEMORY  OF  FRED   HAYWOOD,    EDITOR  OF  THE  DENVER 

REPUBLICAN,    WHO  DIED   MARCH,    1 888,    KITZ-MAC   BEING 

THEN   EDITOR  OF  THE   DENVER   DAILY  WORLD. 

What  boots  the  tear  untimely  falling, 
What  boots  the  sori-ow  born  too  late, 

When  Death  our  selfishness  appalling, 
Rebukes  the  paltry  words  of  hate. 

Rebukes  the  gibe  too  swiftly  spoken 

That  pierced  a  struggling  brother's  heart; 

The  unfeeling  word  that  gave  no  token 
It  knew  that  brother's  harder  part. 

Though  half  the  truth  all  worth  denied  him, 
Too  late  were  now  the  remainder  said, 

What  boots  to  tell  restraints  that  tied  him? 
What  boots  our  praises  to  the  dead? 

Poor  folded  hands  all  undefying, 

Your  meek  surrender  stabs  me  through. 

Too  late  for  praising  or  denying, 
But,  brother,  be  it  well  with  you. 

Forgive,  forgive;  though  unavailing, 
These  tears  shall  plead  a  long  regret; 

That  pulseless  heart  is  past  assailing, 
Forget  my  bitter  words,  forget. 


160 


SURVILLE  J.   DE   LAN. 


SURVILLE  J.  DeLAN. 


Surville  3*  BeXan, 


TIMBER-LINE. 


I  stood  on  the  crest  in  the  sunlight, 
When  the  summer  was  growing  old; 

Yet  the  ages'  trace  on  the  mountain's  face 
Was  frozen,  and  white,  and  cold. 

I  gazed  at  the  distant  meadow, 
Green  with  its  verdure  spread, 

Framing  the  brook,  as  it  pathway  took, 
Through  the  vale,  like  a  silver  thread. 

As  upward  my  vision  I  gathered, 

Over  forests  wide  of  pine, 
I  saw  them  sway  to  the  zephyr's  play, 

Till  they  reached  the  timber-line. 

Where  in  grandeur  and  sadness  were  lying, 
The  broken,  the  dying,  the  dead, 

Like  the  havoc  made  by  the  cannon's  raid, 
On  the  ranks  at  the  battle's  head. 

Naked  and  gaunt  and  frowning, 
Like  a  giant  stripped  for  fray. 

The  mountain  stood  above  the  wood, 
In  the  glare  of  the  summer's  day. 

161 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

I  thought  as  again  I  gathered, 
The  scene  iu  my  vision's  ken, 

That  nature's  strife  resembles  our  life, 
The  lives  of  mortal  men. 

Some  like  the  valley  are  peaceful, 
Some  thrive  like  the  evergreen  pine. 

Whilst  others  must  stand  a  hapless  band, 
To  die  at  the  timber-line. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

What  is  friendship?    ask  the  drowning, 
When  he  sees  his  life  to  save, 

Struggling  through  the  waters  frowning, 
Come  his  rescuer,  strong  and  brave. 

Ask  the  tender  vinelet  clinging 

To  the  oak's  majestic  form, 
When  its  rustling  leaves  are  singing, 

"I  am  sheltered  from  the  storm." 

And  the  weary  wanderer  sinking, 
Faint  from  ills  that  hunger  breeds — 

Ask  him  what  his  soul  is  thinking 
Of  the  hand  that  gently  feeds. 

'Tis  thy  neighbor,  said  the  Master, 
When  suffering  silent  thou  are  mute, 

Sees  thy  wants  and  grants  them  faster 
Than  if  thou  hadst  urged  thy  suit. 

162 


SURVILLE  J.  DeLAN. 


DEATH. 

When  do  we  die? 

Not  when,  enshrouded,  the  casket's  lid  doth  close, 
Veiling  the  world  from  out  our  calm  repose, 

Severing  each  earthly  tie. 

When  do  we  die? 

Not  when  the  burdened  soul,  its  trials  o'er. 
Fluttering  timid  thro'  death's  mysterious  door, 

Passes   on   high. 

It  is  not  death 

When  like  a  mantle  from  the  shoulder  thrown, 
Our  noble  doth  our  grosser  self  disown. 
And  like  a  birdling  the  ascending  sonl 
In  spirit  infancy  achieves  the  goal, 
Breathing  celestial  breath. 

When  do  we  die? 
When  confidence  in  man  is  turned 
To  ashes,  and  all  of  love  is  burned 

Into  a  sigh. 

When  do  we  die? 

When  all  the  nobler  feelings  of  the  heart, 
That  friendship,  hope  and  charity  impart, 

In   fragments  lie. 

163 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Then  we  are  dead, 
When  gazing  at  uureached  joys, 
Ambition  weeping,  intellect  decoys 
To  idle  misery;  action  needed 
By  saddened  mind  we  pass  unheeded; 

Then  we  are  dead. 


WORTH. 


A  sunbeam  once  with  ruddy  light 

Gliding  a  cloud,  in  wanton  play, 
Shone  on  a  road,  where  a  diamond  bright, 

Lost  from   its  place,  in  sadness  lay. 

Like  mirror  true  that  "swift  returns 
The  eager  glance  from  beauty's  eyes," 

The  brilliant  stone  with  radiance  burns, 
And  quick  the  sunbeam's  kiss  replies. 

Just  then  a  dust  cloud,  raised  on  high 

By  passing  zephyrs,  noticed  them, 
And  jeering  as  it  hurried  by 

In  transient  glory,  scorned  the  gem. 

"Scoff    on  !"    the    sunbeam    said,    "tho*    fallen    low, 
The  diamond  still  is  precious,  raised  on  high 

Still  thou  art  vile,  and  yet  will  fortune  show 

Fame  is  not  worth,  tho'  worth  full  oft  may  sigh." 


164 


OTTOMAR  H.  ROTHACKER. 


©ttomar  1b.  IRotbacfcer, 


NELL. 


Nell  !  Nell  ! 
There  is  a  poem  in  the  very  name, 

One  of  those  chance-born,  soulful  dreams  which  start 

To  sudden  being  in  a  poet's  heart 
And  leave  him  wondering  from  whence  it  came. 

Nell  !    Nell  ! 

The  air  is  murmurous  with  the  silvery  sound; 
The  song-birds  trill  it  and  the  Southern  breeze 
Which  blows  from  sunny  isles  in  sunny  seas 
Blends  with  and  bears  it  onward,  perfume  crowned. 

Nell  !    Nell  ! 

The  flowers  whisper  it  unto  the  grass 
(But  only  whisper  it);   the  river's  heart 
Beats  to  the  music,  and  the  waves  impart 

Its  melody  unto  the  banks  they  pass. 

Nell  !  Nell  ! 
The  sunbeams  trace  it  on  the  glinting  leaves, 

And  the  old  forest-kings  are  minded  when  . 

Beneath  their  branches  rode  the  mail-clad  men 
Of  that  dead  age  which  sad-voiced  Romance  grieves. 

165 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Nell  !    Nell  ! 

All  nature  echoes  back  thy  name  to  ine, 
Yet  thou  art  but  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
A  far-off  vision  which  doth  ever  seem 

Half  real  and  half  an  idle  phantasy. 


LOVE  CONQUERS  DEATH. 

When  I  am  dead,  my  love, 
And  they  have  laid  me  in  some  quiet  place 

With  nerveless  fingers  crossed  upon  my  breast- 
When  the  great,  noisy  world  goes  on  apace 

And  none  do  miss  me,  lying  mute  at  rest- 
Come  then  to  me,  my  love, 
And  kiss  the  cold,  white  stone  that  marks  my  grave; 

Smile  once  again  your  old,  sweet,  sunuy  smile; 
Speak  softly  to  me  when  the  grasses  wave 

And  I  shall  know  that  thou  art  there  the  while. 

But  do  not  weep,  my  love — 
For  thou  must  dream  that  I  am  by  thy  side 

And  that  a  spirit  hand  doth  hold  thine  own. 
Then  Love  will  bridge  for  us  Death's  gloomy  tide — 

But  do  not  weep,  nor  make  thou  idle  moan; 

For  if  thou  do,  my  love, 
I  cannot  come  to  thee  and  touch  thy  hand; 

The  dream  will  vanish  and  leave  nothing,  save 
A  silent  dreamer  in  the  silent  land, 

And  thou,  a  maiden,  weeping  o'er  a  grave. 

1 66 


MARION  MUIR  RICHARDSON. 


fIDarion  fliMur  IRicbarfcson. 


HOSE. 
/ 

A  land  of  peak  and  plain  he  saw, 

And  down  mid  vale  a  river  flowing, 
Whose  silver  source  was  fed  with  thaw 

From  hills  where  wintry  winds  were  blowing. 
The  wild  hawk  wheeled  above  grees  isles 

Of  trees,  to  their  own  beauty  bowing, 
And  fields  of  reeds  that  shook  for  miles, 

Where  buds  their  tender  tints  were  showing. 

"My  virgin  land,"  he  cried,  "for  mine 

The  first  white  foot  to  press  its  shores  ! 
Here  too,  my  Rose  shall  come  and  twine 

About  my  homestead's  happy  doors. 
These  waters,  shining  through  the  leaves, 

Reflect  the  Autumn's  fruitful  stores. 
These  meadows  yield  the  wealth  of  sheaves, 

When  Summer's  sun  its  fullness  pours." 

And  so  he  dreamed,  as  men  will  do, 

But  when  those  groves  were  turning  yellow 
Home  winds  across  his  temples  blew, 

And  Rose  he  found,  but  ah,  poor  fellow  ! 
Another's  ring  her  finger  wore. 

He  turned  him  west  and  said:  "I  follow 
The  river's  course  forever  more, 

For  love  is  false  and  hearts  are  hollow." 

167 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


COLORADO   RIVER. 

Mysterious  river  of  the  south, 

Thy  birth  is  where  the  cedar  tree 
Is  white  with  snows  that  thro'  thy  mouth 

Drain  darkly  into  Cortez'  sea. 

The  people  of  the  desert  graves 

Perchance  by  thee  have  wept  their  dead, 

The  watchers  in  the  lone  cliff  caves 

Besides  thee  mixed  their  simple  bread. 

A  spell  of  wonder  and  of  woe 

Thy  name  hath  been  thro'  all  the  past, 

And  yet  by  thee  the  lines  shall  go 

That  link  the  world  with  steel  at  last. 

The  rolling  smoke  from  iron  steeds 
Will  dim  the  marble  of  thy  walls, 

The  gorges  where  the  wild-cat  breeds 
Return  the  engine's  rapid  calls. 

The  bells  of  learning  and  of  prayer 

Ring  silver-sweet  across  thy  tide. 
And  children  gather  roses  where 

The  roving  herds  to-day  abide. 

r>ut,  oh,  the  pain,  thou  fatal  river, 

Some  hearts  shall  feel,  though  these  things  be; 
For  no  man's  effort  can  deliver 

The  sleepers  who  lie  deep  in  thee. 

1 68 


MARION  MU1R  RICHARDSON. 

HOMECOMING. 


Across  the  desert  broad  and  bare, 

Across  the  mountain's  purple  round, 

I  feel  its  whisper  in  the  air, 

The  day  that  sees  me  homeward  bound. 

My  pansies,  white  as  maiden  brows, 
Look  up,  look  up  to  welcome  me  ! 

Oh,  south-wind,  in  the  poplar  boughs, 
Make  music  like  the  summer  sea  ! 

Behind  me  lie  the  city  walls, 

All  golden  with  the  sunset's  pride; 

But  clearer  through  the  distance  calls 
The  promise  of  my  own  fireside. 

In  other  groves  the  branches  wave, 
By  other  paths  the  flowers  bloom; 

But  none,  like  those  I  planted,  gave 
The  subtle  balm  of  love's  perfume. 


169 


EfEN/NGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


.  3ame0  Ibavens. 


A   PLEA   FOR  THE  FALLEN. 

Our  brothers  are  fallen,  pressed  down  by  a  foe 
More  deadly  thau  any  unternpted  can  know; 
They  have  fought  a  hard  battle— the  death-throe  is  past, 
All  bloodstained  and  weary,  they  are  conquered  at  last 

They  are  conquered  at  last !    But  we  never  shall  know 
All  their  bitter  despair,  all  their  desperate  woe, 
Never  know  the  dark  hours  they  have  battled  alone, 
The  glorified  strength  of  their  manhood  all  gone. 

Never  know  the  loug  hours  when  in  darkness  and  gloom 
They  have  wept  like  a  child  at  their  manifest  doom, 
Never  know  how  they  prayed  that  their  chains  might  be 

riven, 
How  the  darkness  of  Hades  enveloped  their  heaven;  . 

Never  know  their  despair  ere  they  finally  fell 
From  their  newly-found  bliss,  to  the  blackness  of  hell, 
How  they  feel  they  are  striped  by  a  merciless  rod, 
Unpitied  by  man  and  forgotten  by  God. 

Suppose  they  are  weak,  then  the  greater  the  need 
Of  your  strong,  manly  arm  and  your  Christian-like  deed, 
And  of  woman's  pure  faith,  that,  whatever  the  cost, 
*Not  a  brother  must  perish— not  a  soul  shall  be  lost" 

170 


.  »         MRS.  JAMES  HA  VENS. 

Tell  me  not— tell  me  not,  for  I  cannot  believe 

That  our  brother's  lost  manhood  we  cannot  retrieve, 

Once  more,  and  forever  once  more  let  his  care 

Be  the  work  of  our  hands,  be  our  burden  of  prayer. 

Then   brothers,    arise   in   more   powerful   might ! 
With  garments  unsullied— with  armor  more  bright, 
Then  sisters,   pray   on — there's  a  record  above 
Of  your  woman-like  zeal  in  this  labor  of  love. 


MY  BROKEN  WING. 


READ  BEFORE  THE  CELEBRATED.  PARLOR  CLUB  OP  LAFAYETTE, 
IND.,  WHICH  HAD  FREQUENTLY  CHIDED  THE  AUTHOR  FOR  HER 
LACK  OF  AMBITION  IN  THE  EXERCISE  OF  HER  TALENTS  IN  LITER 
ARY  COMPETITION. 

I  pass  my  hand  through  my  faded  hair 
That  is  almost  white  as  the  snowdrifts  are, 
And  I  see  the  trace  of  a  hidden  hand 
Girding  my  brow  with  a  silvery  band. 

Age  has  been  writing  his  autograph  here, 
Letter  by  letter,  year  by  year. 
Patiently  carving  each  symbol  and  sign, 
Dipping  his  pen  in  the  fountain  of  time. 

Not  alone  has  the  pencil  of  time  and  decay 
Wrought  this  transformation  from  auburn  to  grey, 
But  the  frost  and  the  fret  and  the  feverish  fears 
Of  ambition,  that  tainted  my  earlier  years. 

171 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

But  the  glamour  is  faded — the  fever  is  cooled, 

A  holier  motive  my  spirit  has  schooled 

To  seek  for  no  glory  that  cometh  not  down 

Thro'  the  shame  of  the  cross  and  the  hope  of  the  crown. 

I  have  sought  from  the  Father  that  heavenly  dower— 
Learued  the  lesson  of  trust  in  Omnipotent  power; 
And  the  frost,  and  the  fret,  and  the  fever  pain, 
Never  shall  sully  my  spirit  again. 

Never  again  shall  ambition's  strife 
Ruffle  the  depths  of  this  happier  life- 
Glorious  dreams  to  the  air  I  fling — 
Folded  forever  my  broken  wing. 

Faded  the  dreams,  the  hopes  and  the  fears, 
That  fretted  the  days  of  my  earlier  years — 
Their  gilding  is  tarnished— mildew  and  rust 
Scattered  my  fabulous  dreams  to  the  dust. 

Now.  tho'  the  changeable  seasons  may  roll, 
An  eternal  summer  is  in  my  soul; 
All  I  now  covet,  or  strive  for.  or  claim, 
Is  the  conscious  wealth  of  a  spotless  name. 

Sweet  content  with  her  heavenly  face 
Graciously  planted  a  dwelling  place 
In  the  peaceful  depths  of  my  rested  heart, 
Gilding  my  life  with  her  magical  art. 

Happily  now  I  can  sit  and  sing; 
Painless,  too,  is  my  broken  wing. 
I  can  even  smile  as  the  days  go  by, 
That  I  only  creep  where  I  hoped  to  fly. 

172 


ETHELYN  ALICE  STODDARD. 


Blice 


THE   FACE   DIVINE. 


Long  ago  in  fair,  old,  far-famed  Venice, 
'Neath  her  dreamy  skies  an  artist  wrought, 

And  her  sparkling  waters  ne'er  reflected 
Things  more  beauteous  than  his  pictured  thought 

But  one  day  he  tired  of  women's  faces, 
Tired  of  ragged  beggars  and  flower  girls. 

In  his  galleries  hung  many  portraits 
From  the  prince's  visage  to  the  churl's. 

Childish  cherubs  smiled  from  out  the  canvas, 
Brides  blushed  sweetly  in  the  bloom  of  love, 

Mystic  sons  of  prayer  and  meditation 
Turned  rapt  eyes  to  holy  things  above. 

But  the  artist  longed  for  something  higher, 
Something  quite  beyond  his  human  ken,— 

Eyes  of  love  without  love's  passion  fire, 
Beauty  found  not  in  the  souls  of  men. 

Out  from  Venice,  young  and  old  together, 

Flocked  crusaders  to  far  Palestine, 
And  their  "Dieu  le  volt"  inspired  the  artist 

With  the  wondrous,  ideal  Face  Divine. 

173 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

After  many  days  of  toil  and  dreaming, 

Classic  as  Apollo  shone  a  face, 
Like  the  gods  conceived  by  man's  own  fancy, 

Beauteous  with  a  merely  human  grace. 

And  the  artist  threw  aside  his  brushes, 

Knowing  his  ideal  unrealized, 
Yet  uo  more  to  all  his  finer  fancies 

Was  that  holy  longing  sacrificed. 

Years  went  by.    The  artist  knew  a  woman 

Lovelier  than  all  divinest  art, 
And  the  Eros  he  had  vainly  painted 

Sketched  her  portrait  on  the  artist's  heart. 

Back  he  went  to  work  with  eager  fingers, 

Inspiration  filled  the  studio,— 
Sought  once  more  to  trace  those  sweet,  sad  features 

In  the  rapture  of  his  passion's  glow. 

All  transfigured  shone  the  finished  portrait, 
But  it  wore  the  flush  of  love's  sweet  wine, 

As  if  kissed  by  flower-curled  lips  of  Venus- 
Fallen  far  below  the  Face  Divine. 

Years  went  by.     The  artist  in  great  sorrow 
Thought  again  on  his  ideal  of  years, 

Flushed  no  longer  with  love's  wine  of  gladness. 
But  bathed  deeply  in  the  wine  of  tears. 

Oh  !   the  wondrous  head  upon  his  canvas, 
With  Gethsemane's  woe  in  every  line  ! 

Through  his  deepest  sorrow  had  the  artist 
Found  at  last  the  dreamed-of  Face  Divine. 

174 


ETHELYN  ALICE  STOOD ARD. 


LE    PLUS    DOUX    MOMENT. 


When  all  the  gladness  of  our  lives  is  pressed 

In  one  sweet  splendid  hour, 
When  our  gods  give  one  single  moment  blest 

Above  Time's  other  dower, 
And  all  the  pulses  of  existence  throb 

Along  one  mighty  vein, 
When  glory  presses  on  the  lips  which  sob 

And  pleasure  usurps  pain 
What  have  we  then? 

I  know  that  some  such  moment  comes  to  all, 

Where'er  their  lot  is  cast; 
And  that  it  compensates  for  all  the  gall 

Which  through  their  lips  has  passed. 
And  not  to  every  man  is  it  the  same— 

This  rapture  of  the  heart; 
But  some  day  in  its  glowing  fervent  flame 
He  has  his  part. 

Perhaps  the  mother  felt  its  happy  thrill 

When  first  she  saw  her  child; 
The  brutal  savage  in  the  act  to  kill, 

The  martyr  when  he  smiled 
To  meet  the  bloody  death  which  came  to  lift  him 

Above  the  power   of   death, 
And  felt  the  deathless  fame  which  stooped  to  gift  him 

In  his  last  breath. 


175 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

For  there  are  many  ways  in  which  we  feel  it 

Beside  love's  glorious  dream; 
The  very  conquests  of  our  lives  reveal  it 

Sometimes  when  that  we  seem, 
After  long  periods  of  hard-grinding  duty, 

To  stand  with  power  grasped  fast, 
And  feel  the  world  of  glory  and  of  beauty 
Our  own  at  last. 


Methinks  that  when  great  Caesars  saw  the  senates 

Lie  fawning  at  their  feet, 
When  poets  felt  their  songs  come  like  the  linnet's,— 

They  knew  this  moment  sweet; 
When  peasant  Joan  heard  the  armies  crying 

"The  Maid  of  Orleans," 
And  Faustine,  when  from  gladiators  dying 

Hot  fierce  blood  ran. 


But  pride  or  lust,  they  came  and  were  forgotten 

Among  the  sad,  sad  years. 
The  fragrance  of  them  long  ago  was  rotten 

And  drowned  in  nation's  tears. 
For  joy  hath  e'er  the  passing  shadow's  fleetness 

In  man  beneath  the  sun; 

We  wait  for  life's  perfected  ripened  sweetness 
Till  life  is  done. 


176 


ETHELYN  ALICE  STODDARD. 


E  THEL  YN  ALICE  S'l  ODDARD. 


"WHY?" 


At  the  feet  of  Time  I  stand  and  question, 

Oh  why? 

Where  is  all  the  joy  of  life  and  loving? 
Has  the  cup  of  keen  delight  gone  by? 
Answer,  Fate,  from  out  thine  iron  heart-gates  ! 

Tell  me  why. 

Many  souls  of  men  rejoice  together, 

Oh  why? 

Press  the  gods  the  mixed  draught  forever 
Till  the  bitter  dregs  are  drunken  dry? 
For  the  sins  of  ages  long  forgotten, 

Suffer  I? 

Does  my  sadness  make  their  laughter  sweeter? 

Oh  why? 

Is  the  price  of  pleasure  always  suffering? 
But  the  pleasure  is  not  left  to  buy; 
Though  a  justice  whom  we  call  eternal 

Knoweth  why  ! 


177 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


Corinne 


THE   FROST   KING. 


A  spirit  roamed  abroad  last  night, 

And  he  wielded  the  sceptre  as  reigning  king; 
The  flowers  withered  beneath  his  touch, 

As  he  sailed  o'er  the  earth  on  shadowy  wing. 
He  blew  his  breath  on  the  quiet  air, 

And  the  rivers  were  spanned  with  a  crystal  bridge; 
The  trees  were  clothed  in  a  feathery  robe, 

As  they  shivered,  and  sighed  on  the  lofty  ridge. 

He  kissed  the  dahlias  with  icy  lips, 

And  they  withered,  and  drooped  in  silent  death; 
And   even   the  hardy  chrysanthemums, 

Shrank  back  from  the  touch  of  his  frosty  breath. 
The  trailing  vines,  with  tendrils  strong, 

Which  clung  to  the  trellis  with  loving  clasp, 
Through  the  long,  bright  summer,  so  firm  and  true, 

Hung  limp  and  helpless,  with  feeble  grasp. 

The  graceful   grasses,   and   willowy  sprays, 
Which  nodded  their  plumes  like  Indian  belles, 

Now  sadly  drooped  their  wilted  heads, 
Like  convicts  mourning  in  prison  cells. 


COR1NNE  McDONOUGH. 

The  gay-hearted  birds  which  rollicked  in  glee, 
And  sweetly  carolled  their  songs  of  love, 

Flew  swiftly  away  from  the  frost-king's  breath, 
To  the  land  of  sunshine  and  orange  grove. 

When  morning  broke  on  the  world  again, 

And  the  sun  glanced  over  the  eastern  hills, 
Behold  the  babbling  brooks  were  bound  ! 

And  fettered  and  chained  were  the  rippling  rills. 
The  purling  streams  and  waterfalls, 

Which  sang  sweet  music  the  summer  long, 
Were  wrapt  in  a  shroud  like  the  sheeted  dead, 

And  silent,  and  hushed  was  their  murmuring  song. 

Gems  flashing,  and  bright  spangled  tree  and  shrub, 

And  the  earth  was  clad  in  a  dress  of  white, 
As  pure  and  spotless  as  angels'  robes, 

Which  float  through  the  air  in  realms  of  light. 
And  glittering  icicles  hung  from  the  eaves, 

Like  stalactites  from  a  cavern  roof, 
And  frost-crystals  sparkled  in  sunbeams  bright, 

Like  diamonds  crushed  'neath  an  iron  hoof. 

A  spirit  had  softly  kissed  the  earth, 

As  he  passed  to  his  home  in  a  frozen  zone, 
Where  he  dwells  in  a  palace  of  crystal  ice, 

In  silent  grandeur,  so  vast  and  lone; 
Where  icebergs  loom  like  mountains  high, 

And  mystic  glaciers  in  starlight  gleam; 
Where  Northern  Lights  cast  a  spectral  glare, 

And  eternal  silence  reigns  supreme. 

179 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Though  the  frost-king  snatches  our  treasures  rare, 

And  summer  darlings  fade  'neath  his  breath; 
Though  he  frightened  away  the  gentle  birds, 

And  all  things  sweet  droop  in  silent  death; 
Yet  we'll  gladly  welcome  his  frigid  reign, 

For  he  brings  rich  treasures  from  far  Iceland, 
And  bright  forms  of  beauty  spring  up  in  a  trice 

When  he  touches  the  earth  with  his  magic  wand. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 


O,  apple  blossoms  pure  and  sweet, 

How  fair  your  beauty  lies, 
In  clusters  bright,  of  pink  and  white, 

Before  our  'raptured  eyes. 

We  waited  long,  through  dreary  months, 

To  see  your  buds  unfold, 
Your  fragile  cups  of  seashell  tints, 

With  fragrant  hearts  of  gold. 

And  when  the  blue  bird's  song  was  heard, 

The  robin's  notes  of  glee, 
A  homesick  longing  filled  our  breast, 

Your  loveliness  to  see. 

The  gentle  flowers  waked  to  life, 

And  lifted  up  their  heads; 
The  violets  in  their  hoods  of  blue, 

From  out  their  wintry  beds, 

180 


CORINNE  McDONOUGH. 

The  tulips  iu  their  mantles  gay, 

Of  crimson,  rose  and  white. 
The  daffodils,  in  orange  gowns 

A  vision  of  delight. 

The  azure  sky,  the  grass  so  green — 

All  Nature  peace  expressed; 
\»  e  thought  this  earth  was  paradise, 

A  type  of  Eden  blest. 

But  when  your  fairy  blooms  were  seen, 

Your  waxen  petals  fair, 
And  scented,  odor-laden  breath, 

Perfumed  the  balmy  air, 

The  world  seemed  full  of  tender  joy, 

And  gladness  most  divine; 
Life's  brimming  goblet  was  upturned, 

And  spilled  its  precious  wine. 

O,  apple  blossoms,  come  again  ! 

And  lift  our  hearts  from  care, 
When   Spring  returns,   and  reigns  supreme, 

In  radiant  beauty  rare. 

We'll  ever  gladly  welcome  you, 

And  sing  your  praises  dear; 
When  May  is  crowned  and  garlanded, 

The  queen  of  all  the  year. 


181 


EYE  \IXGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


flDartba  Hfcbols. 


O'ER  HILLS  OF  SNOW. 

We  dreamed  not,  when,  one  year  ago 

We  stood  and  watched  the  mantling  clouds 
Sift  down  their  filmy  web  of  snow 

And  weave  it  into  winding  shrouds 
That  palled  the  bridge,  the  banks  below. 

And  chilled  the  current  of  the  ware:— 
We  watched— nor  dreamed  that  this  year's  snow 

Would  fafl  upon  your  grave. 

Oh,  break,  my  heart !  through  blinding  tears 

I  watch  this  day  the  falling  snow. 
Oh,  Spirits  of  the  by-gone  years. 

Ton  follow  me  where'er  I  go. 
And  cold  and  wan  your  faces  shine. 

Tour  fair,  white  wings  wave  to  and  fro. 
While  nnMffm  flogias  ding  to  mine. 

And  beckon  o'er  the  hills  of  snow. 

Where  hang  the  bine  clouds  dark  and  low, 

Above  the  red  horizon's  rim, 
I  catch  the  dull,  pale  afterglow. 

Like  hearthstone  fires  burned  low  and  dim: 
And  floating  vapors  fin  the  air. 

As  home's  dead  ashes  tossed  away; 
While  shadowy  robes  are  trailing  there, 

In  rosy  tints  that  pale  to  gray. 

182 


MARTHA  NICHOLS. 

Oh,  storms,  rage  on,  and  beat  my  face, 

And  drift  the  caverns  of  my  heart 
With  Life's  chill  frost,  and  hide  each  trace 

Where  joy  and  love  e'er  held  a  part. 
Sift  down,  ye  cerements  of  death, 

And  chill  the  red  blood's  pulsing  flow, 
And  let  my  spirit,  like  a  breath, 

Float  outward  o'er  the  hills  of  snow. 


Now  turn  thine  hour  glass,  oh  Time, 
And  whet  thy  scythe  for  reaping. 
This  old,  old  year  has  reached  his  prime, 
Has  heard  his  knell  in  Christmas'  chime, 
Awaits  thy  blade  with  faith  sublime, 
And  passes  to  thy  keeping. 

He  brought  us  joys  and  sorrows  too, 
As  'tis  in  earth's  condition. 

Some  things  to  love  and  some  to  rue— 

Of  friends  a  score,  of  foes  a  few — 

Did  all  that  any  year  could  do. 
Now  rounds  his  full  completion. 

Old  year  thy  death  is  drawing  nigh, 

But  we  will  not  be  weeping; 
We'll  speed  thy  going  with  a  sigh, 
The  same  as  when  the  roses  die, 
Or  some  loved  bird  flies  far  a-sky, 
On  bright  wing  southward  sweeping. 

183 


EtEN/NGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Across  the  dim,  chill  wastes  of  snow 
I  hear  Time's  whetstone  ringing, 
His  reapers  chanting  sad  and  low, 
Their  scythe  blades  swinging  to  and  fro, 
And  nearer  through  the  frosty  glow 
They  come,  the  death  song  singing. 

So  swift  ye  come,  so  soon  ye  die, 
Nor  love,  nor  pleasure  keeping; 
The  years,  the  birds,  the  roses  fly 
With  scarce  a  time  for  smile  or  sigh, 
And  thus  we  go— well,  well,  good-by, 
And  peace  to  all  our  sleeping. 


184 


CORA  M.  H.  DA  VIS. 


Cora  flD.  H.  Davis* 

I   COME   TO    THEE,    O    NATURE! 


I  come,  O  Nature,  wounded  and  weary; 
Wrap  me  about  in  your  green  cool  leaves; 
Lay  the  sweet  spell  that  the  wild  rose  weaves, 

On  my  spirit,  aweary,  aweary  ! 

"Let  me  lie  here  clinging  close  to  thy  breast, 
With  thy  fresh  green  grasses  against  my  cheek 
To  cool  its  burning;    with  nothing  to  break 

The  beautiful  silence  of  peaceful  rest, 

Save  the  soothing  sound  of  whispering  trees, 
The  tremulous  notes  of  the  far-away  birds, 
And  a  vague  sweet  sense  of  the  tender  words 

Breathed  to  my  soul  by  the  voice  of  the  breeze. 

How  the  world  seems  fading  slowly  away; 

The  world  with  its  commonplace  cares  that  seem 
To  shut  all  beauty  out  from  the  day— 
The  day  we  would  set  apart  for  our  own, 

Till  only  the  wraith  of  a  broken  dream 
Is  left  to  us  when  the  day  is  gone. 

Ah,  me  !   ah,  me  !    there  is  much  of  pain, 
And  little  of  pleasure,  aud  little  to  gain 
In  life  that  is  given  to  us  unasked, 
With  even  its  meaning  darkly  masked. 

185 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Fade,  faue,  O  world,  with  thy  tangled  web, 

With  its  changing,  mocking  shadows  spread  ! 
If  1  toiled  and  toiled  till  iny  life  should  ebb, 

I  could  not  unravel  its  tangled  thread. 
Press  close  to  my  heart,  O  cool  green  grasses  ! 

Steal  over  my  senses,  O  wild-wood  flower  ! 
Let  tender  words  of  the  breeze  that  passes, 

Soothe  my  tired  spirit  to  rest  for  an  hour. 


TIME. 

Pause  for  a  while,  O  Time,  in  thy  flight, 
Ere  thou  climbest  the  wearisome  height 
Of  the  future,  and  lighten  the  years 
Of  their  heavy  burden  of  unshed  tears. 
What  matter  it  though  a  few  years  pass, 
And  golden  sands  lie  still  in  thy  glass; 
What  though  thou  failest  to  leave  a  trace 
Of  age  on  many  a  fair  young  face; 
Or  failest  to  weave  with  silver  threads 
The  crown  of  hair  on  beautiful  heads? 
'Twould  lift  from  many  a  life  the  cloud 
That  folds  It  now  like  a  clinging  shroud, 
To  many  a  heart  that  has  now  grown  old. 
The  beautiful  story  of  love  be  told. 
I  would  I  might  woo  thee  into  a  sleep, 
Sleep  so  unconscious,  unbroken,  and  deep, 
Thy  glass  might  gather  a  century's  dust; 
The  gleaming  sickle  be  dulled  with  rust. 
The  dusky  folds  of  thy  robe  to  grasp, 
I  strive;  but  powerless  my  hands  unclasp. 

186 


CORA  M.  H.  DA  VIS. 

Though  in  wild  despair  I  pray  thee  stay, 
Relentlessly  thou  dost  glide  away. 
And  on,  and  on,  in  thy  steady  flight, 
Pausing  never  by  day  or  night 
Sowing  broadcast— as  they  sow  the  grain, 
Thorns  and  roses,  pleasure  and  pain. 
Some  gather  the  roses  for  their  part; 
Some  bury  the  thorns  deep  in  their  heart, 
But  onward  it  must  forever  be, 
'Tis  vain  to  repine,  'tis  God's  decree. 


187 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


William  1L  Burfcicft. 


NIAGARA. 

Niagara,  deep,  thrilling  voice  of  God, 

Majestic  in  thy  glory  and  thy  might, 

Thou  art  the  first  of  Nature's  masterworks. 

The  tempest's  thunder  'mid  the  fierce  storm's  roar, 

The  surge  of  billows  beating  on  the  shore, 

Wild  crash  of  landslides  from  the  mountain  hoar, 

All  yield  to  thee  in  power  -grand,  sublime. 

Yet  with  thy  grandeur  beauty  is  arrayed. 

Through  richest  tints  of  heaven,  dawn's  bright  gold, 

The  sunset's  crimson  gleams,  fair  Luna's  sheen, 

The  water's  misty  foam  and  living  green, 

With  never-dying  rainbows  for  thy  crown; 

Thy  voice,  in  ceaseless  monotone  divine. 

Chants  the  paean  of  vast  Infinity. 

SUNSET. 

The  mountains  bathed  in  glory  are, 

At  the  coming  of  day's  rest. 
Golden  and  crimson  from  afar, 

The  clouds  part  o'er  their  crest, 
In  vistas  beautiful  and  bright. 

As  if  from  heaven  waft  down, 
The  rosy  hues  of  the  infant  night, 

Now  give  to  the  day  its  crown. 

1 88 


WILLIAM   L.  BURDICK. 


WILLIAM  L.  BURDICK. 

O,  blessed  ending  such,  when  true, 

Of  that  day  which  man  calls  life  ! 

When  busy  toil  and  care  are  through, 

And  ended  is  the  strife; 

When  cometh,  at  life's  evening  hour, 

The  bright  and  glorious  sun 

Of  God's  own  smile,  and  heaven's  dower, 

On  life's  work  nobly  done. 


MY    SWEETHEART. 

A  little  maid  I  know  full  well, 
For   she   my   heart   doth   own; 

She's  true  and  fair,  all  sweet  and  pure, 
And  reigns  on  love's  high  throne'. 

Her  eyes  are  bright  as  beaming  stars, 
Her  lips  with  rose  tints  kissed. 

The  pinks  and  lilies  of  her  cheeks 
Were  by  the  angels  missed. 

Glad    be   my    sweetheart's   every    day. 

May   God  with   blessings   fill 
Her  life's  cup  till  it  runneth  o'er, 

And  guard  her  from  all  ill. 

Need  I  my  dainty  love  to  name, 
My  sweetheart's  age  unfold? 

She  is  my  own  dear  little  girl, 
My  Helen,  four  years  old. 

189 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


A    PRAIRIE    ROSE. 

TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  WHITE  ROSE  FOUND  ON  THE   PRAIRIE, 
MANY  MILES  FROM  HUMAN   SETTLEMENT. 

What,  growing  here  in  this  untraversed  wild, 

All  beauteous,  fair,  and  sweet,  thou  prairie  rose; 

Each  petal  rich  in  gloss  and  lilly  white, 

Thy  leaves  like  shining  emeralds  in  hue  ! 

How  earnest  thou  here?   Say  not,  it  was  mere  chance 

That  wind-tossed  thee  far  from  thy  native  home. 

'Twere  cruel  so,  emblem  of  purity  and  love. 

The  fairest  head  of  mortal  thou  couldst  grace, 

Amid  the  choicest  flowers  thou  wouldst  reign. 

Why  here?     The  beautiful  is  never  lost, 

And  nothing  pure  and  good  exists  in  vain. 

Earth  means  far  more  than  human  gaze  can  span, 

And  'though  unseen  by  man,  perhaps  for  angels'  eyes 

You  may  bloom  here  as  part  of  Paradise. 


190 


CORYDON  ALSTON  WOODY. 


Cordon  Hlston 


KING    LABOR. 


1  reign  where  the  anvil's  music  rings 
As  it  fashions  the  burnished  steel; 

I  reign  where  the  crystal  fountain  sings, 
As  it  turns  the  ponderous  wheel. 

My  realm  is  the  ocean's  billowy  crest, 
Where  the  ships  of  commerce  plow; 

My  sway  where  the  wild  bald  eagles  nest 
On  the  mountain's  craggy  brow. 

Dominion  is  mine  where  the  palm  tree  holds 
Its  fronds  and  its  fruitage  high 

And  plays  with  the  tips  of  the  fleecy  folds 
That  lazily  float  the  sky. 

And  jurisdiction  is  mine  alone, 
With  neither  a  bond  nor  chain, 

In  the  amber  light  of  the  tepid  zone 
O'er  the  fields  of  golden  grain. 

My  scepter  is  over  the  rock-bound  ore 
In  the  hidden  depths  of  earth, 

And  my  hand  must  lift  the  treasured  store 
Ere  it  has  a  passing  worth. 


191 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

And  far  to  the  north  where  the  wild  winds  rage 

My  empire  spreads  amain, 
And  there  I  bequeath  my  heritage 

To  him  that  loves  my  reign. 

The  rod  of  empire,  too,  I  wield 

Where  the  tree  of  knowledge  grows, 

And  over  the  heavenly  favored  field 
Where  the  rose  of  Sharon  blows. 

Divine  my  right,  since  it  is  said 

In  the  book  of  faith  and  trust: 
"By  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  shalt  thou  eat  bread 

Till  thy  dust  returns  to  dust" 

A  monarch  I  wheresoe'er  you  look 

From  the  torrids  to  the  pole. 
While  others  may  rule  o'er  their  little  nook, 

I  reign  o'er  the  boundless  whole. 


YOUTH'S    UNFULFILLED    PROMISE. 

Methinks  me  now  of  a  pleasant  time 

In  the  lovely  long  ago. 
Excelling  all  I  since  have  known 

Or  ever  hope  to  know. 
Youth's  sails  were  set  to  the  breeze  of  hope; 

Love  held  the  dipping  oar; 
The  bark  of  life  stood  out  to  sea, 

From  childhood's  radiant  shore. 

192 


CORYDON  ALSTON  WOODY. 

The  bow  of  pro  raise,  arched  the  sky, 

By  heaven's  artist  painted; 
And  flowers  of  May  were  all  aglow, 

With  the  Eden's  perfume  scented; 
The  birds  that  sang  sweet  melodies 

By  every  brook  and  brae, 
Foretold  no  sorrow  laden  storms 

Along  life's  promised  way. 

Oh  lovely  morn,  when  youth  sets  sail 

On  life's  unclouded  ocean  ! 
Oh  playful  billows  rock  me  still 

In  childhood's  cradled  motion  ! 
Bring  back  again  youth's  dreams  and  hopes 

No  storms  of  life  have  riven; 
Let  fancy  roam  once  more  at  will 

O'er  earth,  to  me  a  heaven. 

Youth's  harbor  passed  the  open  sea 

Received  my  dauntless  boat. 
The  swift-winged  swallow  homeward  bound 

Piped  down  a  warning  note. 
But  no  advice,  though  timely  lent, 

Could  reef  youth's  spreading  sail- 
In  life's  untried  experiment 

None  dream  that  they  can  fail. 

At  first  the  ocean's  broad  expanse, 

Unbroken  it  would  seem, 
Inspired  my  yet  untutored  mind 

Like  visions  in  a  dream. 


193 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Some  El  Dorado  unexplored 

My  ardent  touch  awaited; 
Utopian  land  for  me  was  there 

Especially  created. 

Through  time's  slow  flight  till  youth  had  fled 

I  sought  a  land  of  bliss, 
In  search  of  fabled  wealth  and  peace 

I  could  not  find  in  this. 
But  oh  !   the  folly  fancy  sows 

In  youth's  unseasoned  brain, 
d?tiat  harvest  time  must  surely  reap 

In  penitence  and  pain. 

Oft  times  before  with  hope  aglow 

And  faith  a  burning  flame, 
Has  youth  set  sail  for  unknown  lands 

To  gain  the  meed  of  fame. 
Oft  times  has  sad  experience 

This  lesson  plainly  taught: 
Beyond  the  shores  of  common  sense, 

To  wisdom  dearly  bought. 

• 

How  soon  life's  storms  in  fury  roll 

And  lash  the  seas  to  foam, 
Bringing  to  mind  as  ne'er  before 

Sweet  memories  of  home. 
Too  late  they  come  for  never  more 

Returns  life's  ebbing  tide. 
The  ships  that  sail  its  waters  o'er 

Must  reach  the  other  side. 


194 


COKYDON  ALSTON  WOODY. 

Oh,  is  such  fate  the  fate  of  all 

Who  tempt  the  course  of  time? 
Are  there  no  souls  that  sail  through  life 

In  spring's  perpetual  clime? 
Are  there  no  ports  where  one  may  reef 

A  torn  and  tattered  sail? 
Are  there  no  harbors  where  life's  bark 

May  'scape  time's  raging  gale? 

Are  shattered  hopes  and  frozen  hearts 

The  fruitage  on  each  way  ? 
Does  night  her  mantle  fling  at  noon 

On  each  auspicious  day? 
The  foot  that  jubilant  goes  forth 

Is  it  the  one  that  bleeds? 
Is  that  famed  paradise  of  youth 

A  garden  filled  with  weeds? 


195 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


Hnna  jpritcbarfc. 


COLORADO. 

ON  THE  ADOPTION  OF  EQUAL  SUFFRAGE. 

My  Colorado,  just  and  fearless  state, 

How  hast  thou  added  to  thy  glorious  name 

By  this  new  victory,  this  ennobling  step 

Toward   universal  justice  !    Thou   hast  placed 

Its  rightful  crown  upon  each  daughter's  brow, 

And  given  into  her  hands,  though  all  untaught, 

The  mighty  scepter  of  thy  government; 

Because  thy  thoughtful  heart  is  just,  and  dares 

A  transient  evil  for  a  lasting  good; 

Because  thy  watchful  eyes  are  quick  to  see 

Thy  children  should  be  ruling  side  by  side, 

With  equal  rights  and  duties.    Equal  rights, 

Since  both  are  human;  equal  duties,  too, 

To  strengthen  all  the  thews  of  moral  growth, 

And  make  them  men  and  women  rightfully. 

I  thank  thee,  noble  state,  that  I  can  breathe 

An  air  so  vivified  by  liberty 

As  thine  hast  ever  been.    Oh  never  doubt 

But  thou  hast  chosen  wisely;    hands  untaught 

Are  teachable,  and  strength  and  wisdom  come 

With  use  and  years.    Thou  hast  done  well  to  trust 

A  nobler  weapon  to  the  hands  that  once 

Wielded  the  axe  and  rifle  in  thy  dark 

And  danger-haunted  forests,  side  by  side 

With  manly  strength  and  daring. 

196 


• 


ANNA  PRI'ICHARD. 

Womanhood 

Having  received  new  rights,  will  strive  to  fill 
The  measure  of  thy  just  demands,  and  grow 
To  fuller  height  and  beauty.     Thou  shalt  reap, 
Oh  mother  state,  a  rich  reward  for  this, 
Though  done  in  justice  not  in  charity. 


A   SONG    UNSUNG. 


Would  that  my  lips  could  voice  in  tender  words 
The  song  that  lies  so  near  them,  throbbing  ever 
With  yearning  for  existence,  yet  appalled 
By  the  crude  forms  my  fancy  chooses  forth 
For  its  embodiment.     As  some  frail  plant, 
Born  in  the  deep  foundations  of  a  ruin, 
In  silence  and  in  darkness,  longs  for  light 
And  creeps  and  struggles  on,  up  to  a  chink, 
Where  gleams  the  golden  sunshine  like  a  star, 
And,  having  reached  it,  pushes  through  and  finds, 
Amid  new  light  and  warmth,  a  sturdier  growth 
And  deeper  color,  and  a  radiant  prime 
To  thrill  some  heart  with  joy  and  reverence; 
So,  my  poor  song,  incompetent  and  weak, 
Yearns  for  the  outer  world  of  glorious  life, 
Yearns  for  the  light  and  warmth  of  human  love 
And  human  sympathy.     And  might  not  it 
Quicken  to  beauty  in  their  smile,  perchance, 
And  thrill  some  heart  with  truth  and  earnestness? 


J97 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

In  the  dim  legends  of  old  Greece  we  read 

How,  ages  past,  a  great  and  generous  god, 

Prometheus,  on  the  race  of  men  bestowed 

That  priceless  gift  which  raised  them  from  the  beasts 

And  made  their  after  glory  possible. 

His  was  the  gift  of  altar-fires  that  burn 

With  pure  and  steadfast  radiance— his  the  gift 

Of  hearth-fires,  where  life's  tenderest  joys  are  found. 

'Twas  he  revealed  the  skillful  cunning  known 

To  none  but  Vulcan.    And  the  angry  gods, 

In  vengeance,  fettered  him  with  cruel  chains, 

And  doomed  him,  preyed  upon  by  hideous  birds, 

To  suffer  everlasting  punishment. 

There  was  but  one  brave  heart  that  dared  to  feel 

A  throb  o'f  pity  for  the  tortured  god; 

There  was  but  one  strong  arm  that  dared  to  cleave 

The  chains  that  bound  him  to  the  jagged  rock;x 

Great  Hercules  released  the  prisoner 

And  ended  his  long  agony  at  last. 

O,  men  and  women  of  the  world  to-day, 
Ye  can  feel  pity  for  that  god  of  old, 
Who  suffered  for  mankind,  and  ye  condemn 
The  hands  that  bound  him  to  his  martyrdom. 
But  I,  alas,  within  your  midst,  I  see 
Full  many  a  bound  Prometheus  suffering  all 
The  pain  and  passion  of  a  noble  mind, 
Fettered  and  helpless.     Every  towering  truth 
That  now  is  made  a  landmark  for  the  race, 
In  the  great  march  of  progress  has  been  bought 
With  the  heart  blood  of  some  courageous  man, 
Who  dared  to  bring  this  priceless  gift  to  you. 

198 


ANNA  PRITCHARD. 

O,  Hercules,  where  art  thou?   them  whose  heart 

Will  be  so  brave  and  just,  whose  arm  will  dare 

To  cleave  the  bonds  of  rank  intolerance 

And  set  the  captives  free  forevermore? 

O,  men  and  women  of  the  world  to-day, 

"Us  this  my  song,  if  sung,  would  strive  to  teach, 

"Infinite  love  and  patience  infinite." 


199 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


flfca  Croucb  Ibaslttt. 


MORITURUM. 


Dying— the  winds  are  desolate  with  the  wail 
Of  unforgotten  summers;    the  sweet  breath 
Of  balmy  mornings  innocent  of  death, 

Lingers  caressing  in  the  shadowy  vale, 
Reluctant  to  depart; 

And  murmuring  midst  the  rushing  of  the  gale 
The  minor  echoes  of  a  saddened  heart. 

Dying— a  lone  bird  whistles  for  a  mate 
Floating,  perhaps,  through  sunny  southern  skies, 
The  hills  are  hazy  with  the  hue  that  lies 

Upon  their  swelling  breasts,  as  tlio'  the  fate 
Of  love's  remembered  woe 

In  brooding  mysteries  would  round  them  wail 
And  vibrate  chords  of  long  ago. 

Dying— a  lonely  spirit  rides  the  blast; 

Dying— a  somber  spirit  fills  the  air; 

The  requiems  chanted  for  the  dead  are  there; 
The  soft  sweet  summer  days  are  in  the  past; 

The  harmonies  divine 
Of  tender  memories  too  dear  to  last, 

Sob  over  shattered  heart-strings—harp  of  mine. 

200 


IDA  CROUCH  HAZLITT. 

JUNE    ROSES. 

Oh,  the  skies  are  bright  with  beauty, 

And  the  world  is  bright  with  love, 
For  God  is  in  earth  and  heaven, 
His  smile  below  and  above. 

Beautiful  roses;    rare  June  roses, 

The  smile  of  God  on  the  world  of  His  love  ! 

The  days  are  steeped  in  their  fragrance; 

The  night's  deep  passion  breathes 
A  tremulous  odor  of  blossoms, 
A  languor  of  perfumed  wreaths. 
'Tis  heavy  with  roses,  dewy  roses, 
Red,  rich  roses  for  maidens'  wreaths. 

They  lie  on  the  breast  of  beauty, 

And  heave  with  its  tender  tide; 
They  garland  the  sacred  altars, 

And  rival  the  blush  of  the  bride. 

i 

They  are  clasped  in  the  waxen  fingers 

Love  kisses  in  bitter  loss; 
They  bloom  in  the  gardens  of  sorrow, 
They  smile  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 
Saintly  roses;    pure,  sweet  roses, 
Love's  own  roses  that  cover  Christ's  cross. 

Oh,  bring  me  no  costly  flowers, 

They  tell  of  life's  foolish  pride; 
But  bury  me  deep  in  roses, 
Roses  on  every  side. 

Passionate  roses,  loving  roses, 

God's  pleading  gift  to  a  world  of  pride. 


WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


HIS   REASON. 

Why  I  love  you?  Ask  the  rivers 
Why  they  flow  to  meet  the  sea; 

Ask  the  fouutaiu  why  its  waters 
Leap  to  kiss  the  sun  iu  glee; 

Ask  the  dewdrop  why  it  sparkles 

In  the  bosom  of  the  rose; 
Ask  the  lily  why  its  fragrance 
Perfumes  every  breeze  that  blows; 

Ask  the  moonbeams  why  they  quiver 
On  the  dimples  of  the  lake; 

Ask  the  rainbow  why  It  arches, 
Ask  the  billows  why  they  break; 

Ask  the  rosebud  why  it  trembles, 
Trembles  on  your  beating  breast; 

Ask  jour  fair  cheek  why  it  blushes — 
Tells  a  tale  but  half  confessed. 

When  these  whisper  all  their  story, 

Shall  my  answer  be  complete, 
And  your  tender  heart  shall  feel  it — 
Just  because  I  love  you.   sweet  ! 


FRANK  GRAIN  SCHOFIELD. 


Jranfc  (Train 


THE   SOLDIER  BOY. 


"Ask  me  not  to  stay  my  mother, 
Hai'k  !  the  battle  has  begun, 

And  the  blood  of  fallen  kindred 
Loudly  calls  from  Lexington. 

"Back  the  hated  ranks  are  marching,' 
Back  to  Boston's  safe  retreat; 

But  their  dead  shall  line  the  road-side, 
Our  revenge  will  be  replete. 

"Listen,  now  the  drums  are  beating 
And  the  fifes  play  loud  and  shrill; 

How  it  stirs  my  soul  to  action, 
How  it  makes  my  heart  to  thrill. 

"Ask  me  not  to  stay,  my  mother, 

For  my  country  I  must  go. 
Liberty  shall  be  the  watchword 

And  its  love  will  ever  grow. 

"Fare  thee  well,  but  not  forever, 
Kiss  the  cheek  you  love  so  true; 

Bless  me  ere  I  leave  you,  mother, 
My  duty  shall  I  try  to  do." 

203 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Then  the  eager  form  sprang  lightly, 

Out  beneath  the  sunlight  dome 
Soldier  boy  why  did  you  tarry 

For  a  farewell  glimpse  of  home. 

On  and  on  they  marched  to  glory 

On  to  Bunker  Hill's  steep  height 
Breathing  liberty  and  justice 

Facing  death  and  spurning  night. 

Soon  the  scenes  of  childhood  vanished 

And  a  tear  stood  in  his  eye; 
Soon  he  joined  the  thronging  numbers 

Burning  for  their  rights  to  die. 

Soldier  boy,  what  was  your  mission 

In  the  carnage  and  the  strife? 
Did  they  find  your  post  deserted, 

Did  you  sell  it  with  your  life? 

Where  the  dead  and  groaning  wounded 

Thickly  strewed  the  hill,  he  lay, 
Mangled,  bleeding,  growing  weaker, 

Breathing  his  young  life  away. 

In  the  twilight,  in  the  shadows, 

O'er  him  bent  a  pitying  foe, 
Wonder-struck  that  one  so  tender 

To  the  battle  field  would  go. 

Soldier  boy,  soldier  boy  !  where  is  thy  glory? 

Blanched  is  the  cheek  that  thy  mother  last  pressed, 
And  thy  loved  form  is  now  mangled  and  gory, 

Over  thy  forehead  the  careless  curls  rest 

204 


FRANK   GRAIN      SCHOFIELD. 


FRANK  GRAIN  SCHOFIELD. 

Soldier  boy,  soldier  boy  !  sweet  be  thy  slumber, 
Fragrant  the  flowers  that  incense  thy  grave. 

Liberty  blesses  thy  name  and  thy  number, 
Over  thy  bosom  the  stars  and  stripes  wave. 

FORSAKEN. 

The  evening  sky  is  golden, 

The  sun  has  gone  to  rest; 
And  zephyrs  fan  the  blossoms, 

As  fades  the  glowing  west. 
The  bird  flies  swiftly  homeward, 

To  join  its  happy  mate; 
But  in  my  tearless  sorrow 

I'm  waiting  at  the  gate. 

Around  me  twilight  deepens, 

The  stars  look  one  by  one; 
The  whip-poor-will  is  calling, 

The  weary  day  is  done. 
And  where  our  vows  were  whispered, 

I  stand,  and  watch,  and  wait; 
And  dream  of  joys  departed, 

While  leaning  on  the  gate. 

The  early  dews  are  falling, 

The  eve  is  growing  chill; 
The  glow-worm  in  the  blue-grass, 

Illumes  its  home  at  will. 
Again  the  old-time  thrilling 

Sweeps  with  it  bitter  hate, 
And  bursts  the  sealed  fountain, 

I'm  weeping  at  the  gate. 

205 


EYENLVGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Yes,  at  the  gate  I'm  weeping, 

Alas,  vain  as  the  task, 
Within  the  silent  church-yard, 

Lies  all  that  love  would  ask. 
'Tis  there  my  heart  is  buried, 

But  hope  has  learned  to  wait; 
Sometime,  some  day,  some  morning, 

We'll  meet  at  heaven's  gate. 


THE  SHEPHERDESS. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN.) 

No  shepherd  owns  so  fair  a  flock 
As  the  queen  of  night  e'er  guides— 

The  shepherdess  whose  smile  benign 
Through  heaven's  arches  glides. 

When  fades  the  glimmering  of  the  day, 
And  the  flowers  shut  their  eyes. 

From  her  abode  with  placid  face 
She  journeys   through   the  skies— 

And  gently  leads  her  wandering  flock 

Enchanted  by  her  light. 
And  every  star  on  harp  of  blue 

Makes  music  for  the  night. 

Throughout  the  playful,  happy  throng, 

There  reigns  a  peace  supreme- 
No  hate  or  bitterness  is  there, 
And  they  are  what  they  seem. 

206 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 


fHMscellaneou0  anfc  Hnon^moue. 


"LITTLE  GOO." 


One  little  laughing  baby, 
With  dancing  ringlets  of  gold, 

One  little  armful  of  sunshine, 
The  one  wee  lamb  of  our  fold. 


One  little  rollicking  tyrant, 

With  worshipful  slaves  half  a  score, 
One  little  earthly  cherub— 

To  see  him  was  to  adore. 


One  little  year  he  was  with  us, 
Our  beautiful  golden-naired  joy, 

Then  a  week  of  watching  and  anguish— 
"Oh,  God,  spare  to  us  our  boy  !" 


One  house   that  has   lost   its   sunshine. 

Where  sad  hearts  a  sad  vigil  keep, 
One  little  mound  in  the  churchyard — 
Our  baby  has  fallen  asleep  ! 

CHARLOTTE   E.    BALLARD. 
207 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

RIO  DE  LAS  ANIMAS  PERDIDAS. 
I. 

Who  are  these  that  drift  before  me,  weaving  spells  en 
chanted  o'er  me, 

That  with  magic  power  draw  me,  where  the  shining  waters 
charm  ? 

And  what  is  this  sound  of  sweetness  with  its  fatal  gift  of 
fleetness? 

Sounds  that  lills  me  to  completeness,  with  a  sense  of  per 
fect  calm? 

Have   I,   leaves   of   lotus   eating,    even   time   itself   been 
cheating, 

And  the  murmur  still  repeating,  as  it  down  the  river  rolls, 

Found  that  memory  is  sleeping,  Lethe  my  affections  steeping 

And  my  soul  in  durance  keeping,   by  the  River  of  Lost 
Souls? 

II. 

In  a  wonder  born  of  terror,  I  look  in  the  river's  mirror 
And  behold  the  ghosts  of  error,  shrouded  in  white  samite 

stoles; 
In  the  near  light  or  the  far  light,  of  the  moonlight  or  the 

starlight, 

Or  the  flashing  of  the  car  light  that  along  the  river  rolls, 
Gaunt  against  granitic  edges,  dipping  art  amid  the  ledges, 
Poising  upon  dangerous  edges  of  red  battlemented  knolls; 
Golden  locks  and  raven  tresses,  arms  that  pulsate  with 

caresses. 
These  my  midnight  vigil  blesses,   by  the   River  of  Lost 

Souls. 

208 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 


III. 


Lips  that  move,  but  make  no  speeches,  hand  that  into  space 

outreaches 

As  when  one  in  vain  beseeches  for  a  respite  from  all  care; 
And  an  army  of  white  faces,  filling  all  the  sylvan  spaces, 
With  a  vision  of  lost  graces— these  are  present  everywhere; 
As  the  star  rays  on  the  river,  in  the  solemn  midnight 

quiver, 
And  a  tremor,  like  a  shiver,   seems  to  touch  each  wave 

that  rolls — 
Are  they  wings  of  'lost  ones  lifting?    Are  they  forms  of 

lost  ones  drifting, 
On  the  sands  so  soft  and  shifting,  by  the  River  of  Lost 

Souls? 


IV. 


In   the  west  the  sad   Dolores,   with  its   legendary   stories 
Of  cliff   dwellers,   time-dimmed  glories,   outlines  on   each 

cell-pierced  wall, 
Moves  along  where  nature's  pages,  burdened  with  the  tale 

of  ages, 

Waits  the  coming  of  the  sages,  who  its  secrets  shall  recall, 
Of  the  time  the  mother  taught  her  bright  and  bronzed 

bosomed  daughter 

That,  to  taste  the  shining  waters,  as  it  to  the  sunland  rolls, 
Was  to  walk  in  Happy  Islands,  floating  in  the  azure  Sky- 
lands, 

Hovering   above   the    Highlands,    by   the    River   of    Lost 
Souls . 

209 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 


V. 


Now,  through  piue  trees  tall  and  slender,  comes  a  rosy  light 
and  tender, 

As  the  young  day  in  its  splendor,  dawns  upon  the  hem 
isphere; 

And  the  ghostly  shapes  around  me,  whose  wierd  presence 
have  spell-bound  me 

And  with  aerie  fancies  crowned  me,  with  the  darkness 
disappear. 

Thus  the  night  has  its  romances,  and  the  heart  throbs 
'neath  ghost  glances, 

As  the  midnight  hour,  advances,  where  the  fateful  river 
rolls 

Till,  all  other  loves  forgetting,  with  hopes  once  so  soul  be 
setting, 

Daylight  dawns  with  deep  regretting,  by  the  Rives  of  Lost 
Souls? 


SONNET. 

In  the  days  long  gone  I  am  living,  love,  to-night 

As  I  listen  to  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

I   have   driven   sorrow  out  and   the   world  Is   warm   and 
bright, 

I  am  happy,  gay  and  youthful  once  again. 
I  see  the  old  red  mill,  the  schoolhouse  on  the  hill 

And  I  hear  the  joyous  shouts  ring  out  in  glee; 
The  memory  is  sweet,  it  makes  my  being  thrill 

When  I  think  how  much  they  were  to  you  and  me. 

210 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

In  the  days  long  gone,  when  you  were  by  my  side, 
And  the  rosy  tints  of  hope  caine  into  view, 

We  builded  airy  castles,  fashioned  by  our  love  and  pride; 
Ah  !  The  world  was  then  for  none  but  me  and  you. 

But  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  forget  those  happy  days 
Or  cloud  them  with  the  mist  of  vain  regret; 

Let  them  linger  in  our  lives  like  the  sunbeam's  brightest 
rays, 

Let  us  cherish  them  and  vow  we'll  ne'er  forget. 

OLNEY 


THE     EIDELWEISS. 

The  Rockies  stood  in  mighty  ranks, 

Bathed  in  the  summer  fair; 
Their  crystal  peaks  above  me  rise 

In  upper  realms  of  air. 
On  canon  sides  the  Columbine 

Nodded  a  welcome  gay, 
And  far  from  camp  and  the  cares  of  life 

I  rode  alone  that  day. 

And  now  the  trail  led  through  a  grove 

Where  slim  white  aspens  stood; 
With  quivering,  mystery-murmuring  leaves, 

A  beauteous  sisterhood. 
And  now  straight  up  a  mountain  side 

It  climbed  so  steeply  on, 
And  at  the  top  behold  !   afar, 
The  silvery  San  Juan. 


EYENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Here  are  vast  mesas,  brown  and  bare; 

The  trees  are  all  below, 
And  up  above,  among  the  rocks, 

There  shines— the  summer  snow, 
And  at  its  edge,  all  white  and  small, 

Beside  the  crusted  ice, 
Dismounting,  kneeling  eagerly, 

I  pluck  the  Eidehvelss. 

O,  happy  morn  !    O,  mighty  hills  ! 

How  often,  far  away, 
The  homesick  one  turns  back  to  you, 

And  longs  for  that  fair  day  ? 
And  sometimes — 'mid  the  city's  din, 

There's  a  hot  tear  overflowing 
To  think  how  sweet,  above  the  clouds, 

The  Eidelweiss  is  growing. 


PALMER  LAKE. 


Wierdly  beautiful,  wild  and  fair. 

Maid  of  the  mist  and  mountain  air, 

Flashing   your   smiles  to   the   laughing   skies, 

Wooing  at  eve  her  crimson  dyes; 

Magical  queen  of  the  green  "divide," 

Beauty's  daughter  at  even  tide 

As  the  shadows  creep  thro'  golden  bars 

To  catch  the  sheen  of  the  silver  stars. 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

Homes  of  beauty,  'mid  wild  rose  bowers, 
Vine-clad  rocks,  and  blooming  flowers; 
Grasses  luxuriant,  green  and  wild, 
Playground  of  nature's  happy  child; 
Pine  tree  aisles,  where  holy  light 
Plays  with  the  shadows  of  day  and  night; 
Sylvan  dells,  where  the  creek  sweeps  by 
Murmuring  its  song  to  the  azure  sky. 


Sylph  of  the  beauteous  sylvan  scene  ! 
Pride  of  the  hills  of  velvet  green  ! 
Sweet  are  the  forms  that  seek  thy  breast, 
As  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  golden  west; 
And  bright  the  face  your  fountains  spray 
Whose  rainbow  hues,  on  thy  bosom  play; 
A  fairy  sprite,  as  you  motionless  lie 
Waiting  to  mirror  the  star-gemmed  sky. 


And  soft  the  dip  of  the  flashing  oar 
As  the  boatman  pulls  from  the  pebbly  shore; 
And  sweet  the  scenes  thro'  the  summer  day, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  and  sunlight  play. 
And  sweeter  still,  on  the  evening  air, 
(As  moonlight  and  starlight  mingle  there) 
The  hum  and  stir  of  the  happy  throng, 
The  rythmic  music  of  laughter  and  song. 


Pride  of  the  ages  yet  to  be  ! 
Pride  of  the  years  of  eternity  ! 
Child  of  creation's  thought  and  love, 

213 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 

Whose  white  waves  rise  and  whose  ripples  flow, 

Whispering  tales  of  the  "long  ago," 

Love  and  laughter  and  songs  for  thee 

Maid  of  the  mountain  wild  and  free. 

GEORGE  S.    PHELPS. 


CLAUDIAN. 

Last  of  the  poets  whose  tottering  footsteps  trod 

The  path  by  Vergil  marked  into  Elysium; 

There  to  find  a  nook  amid  the  laurel-crowned, 

Almost  a  stranger,  yet  received  and  welcomed. 

Thy   song,   sprung   from   a   heart   touched   by   the   dying 

breath 

Of  Rome's  great  bard,  fanning  into  a  fitful  flame 
The  dying  coal  of  Roman  spirit,  inscribed  thy  name 
Upon  the  golden  tablet  with  Rome's  greatest  sons. 

FREDERICK   KRAMER. 


INTROSPECTION. 

I  know  thy  grief,  and  yet  how  shall  I  write? 
To  comfort  t.hee.  what  shall  I  say  to-night? 
That  thou  art  not  alone?    Behold  the  throng 
Of  wounded  souls  that  bear  some  gloomy  wrong. 
Oh  !    sorrowing  friend,  what  multitudes  to-day 
Walk  by  thy  side,  unknown  the  thorny  way, 

214 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

And  walk  in  darkness,  praying  for  the  light 
Like  one  who  walks  his  chamber  in  the  night, 
And  ever  through  his  window  looks  away 
Into  the  chilly  night  and  longs  for  day. 

There  is  no  soul  but  has  some  deep  regret 
For  something. lost  on  which  the  heart  was  set; 
Through  tear-drop  prisms  still  Ave  see  it  glow, 
Rimmed  with  the  splendor  of  the  glorious  bow, 
There  is  no  soul  but  sometimes  takes  its  flight 
To  those  far  skies  that  made  its  youth  so  bright, 
In  search  of  something  lost,  and  with  a  sigh 
Gives  o'er  the  search,  returns  and  waits  to  die, 
And  treads  the  stony  way  with  bleeding  feet, 
To  find  it  when  the  heart  has  ceased  to  beat. 

Now  that  thy  love  is  spurned  and  under  trod, 

Fly  thou,  to  Nature,  Poetry  and  God; 

Nay,  fly  to  love  itself  and  love  shall  be 

Its  own  strong  healer,  and  shall  set  thee  free. 

How  sweet  to  know  in  all  the  wounds  we  feel 

The  mystic  power  that  nature  has  to  heal; 

The  strength  and  comfort  found  by  one  who  flies 

From  human  contests  to  the  fields  and  skies — 

The  blest  escape  from  conflict  and  from  care, 

As  though  the  God  of  comfort  met  us  there. 

I  have  not  soared  to  God  to  walk  with  him, 
And  my  past  visions  have  been  brief  and  dim. 
Although,  like  Paul,  I  fought  against  the  flesh, 
With  every  power,  and  prayer,  and  thought,  and  wish. 
Yet  when  abroad  with  Nature  ranging  free, 

215 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

God  met  me  on  the  hill  and  walked  with  me  ! 

Oh,  sweet  autumnal  days  of  long  ago  ! 

How  in  my  bosom  yet  their  raptures  glow  ! 

Those  mellow  days  when  in  the  infinite  West, 

In  some  celestial  island  of  the  blest, 

The  angels  loosed  the  winds  and  set  them  free 

To  roam  the  field  and  woods  and  hills  with  me; 

While  toiling  men  in  hamlets  far  away 

Heard  the  woods  roar  through  all  the  balmy  day. 

Oh,  blessed  days  of  sunshine  and  of  peace  ! 
When  from  the  strife  of  man  I  stole  release, 
And  walked  about  among  the  hills  and  woods 
In  sweet  company  of  God's  solitudes; 
Through  velvet  fields  I  saw  the  rivers  run 
And  white  towns  shining  in  the  mellow  sun, 
And  heard  the  woods  their  soothing  music  pour 
From  forest  harps  with  multitudinous  roar, 
Or  saw  across  some  blue  and  distant  bay 
A  glory  fall  on  cities  far  away; 
And  tapering  staples  towering  slim  and  high 
Stand  glorified  against  the  wondrous  sky. 
And  then  God  came,  with  His  rich  gifts  of  power, 
And  talked  and  walked  with  me  from  hour  to  hour, 
And  changed  me  to  a  harp  of  chords, 
Attuned  to  music  of  His  precious  words. 

IN   RETROSPECT. 

Once  more  upon  the  tented  field 
With  dauntless  hearts  and  martial  tread, 

Come  back,  O,  spirits  of  the  past 
And  bivouac  with  the  quick  and  dead. 

216 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

Turn  back,  O  Time,  in  retrospect 
We  live  again  'midst  scenes  of  strife — 

We  see  the  must'ring  squadrons  form, 
We  hear  the  bugle,  drum  and  fife. 

We  see  the  deadly  rifle's  flash, 
We  hear  the  screaming  shot  and  shell, 

We  hear  the  Federal's  wild  hurrah  ! 
We  hear  the  savage  Rebel  yell. 

I 

We  see  amidst  the  sulphurous  smoke, 

The  wavering  lines  of  blue  and  gray, 
We  see  their  flaunting  banners  float 
Where  valor  leads  its  gory  way. 

We  see  the  gathering  columns  break — 

Mown  down  before  the  leaden  rain, 
We  hear  the  loud  exultant  shout  ! 

We  see  the  crimson  tide  of  pain. 

We  see  the  charge,  the  mad  retreat, 
We  hear  the  moans  of  dying  men — 

The  clouds  of  battle  roll  away, 
We  see  the  loathsome  prison  pen. 

We  see  the  camp  fires'  flickering  light 
Where  grew  the  fields  of  ripening  grain, 

We  see  the  mouldering  plowshare  rust 
'Midst  winter's  snows  and  summer's  rain, 

We  see  the  widow's  sombre  weeds. 

We  see  the  furrowed  cheek  turn  pale, 
We  see  affection's  wan  despair, 

We  hear  the  orphan's  bitter  wail. 


217 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

The  bivouac  fires  no  longer  burn — 
Peace  dawns  at  last,  blest,  happy  day; 

Stack  arms  !   Farewell  the  tented  field, 
Break  ranks  !  the  blue.   Break  ranks  !   the  gray. 

We  see  110  North,  South,  East  or  West, 

Columbia  stands  united— free; 
Hail  to  the  quick  !    Hail  patriots  dead  ! 

Your  deeds  have  wrought  this  grand  decree. 

We  see  our  starry  banner  float 

O'er  all  our  land  by  freedom  blest, 
We  see  these  little  mounds  of  earth 

Where  valor  finds  eternal  rest 

Oh  !    bloodiest  picture  of  the  past, 
Fade  from  our  sight  as  years  have  fled. 

Leave  110  remembrance  of  thy  day, 
Save  honor  to  our  gallant  dead. 

T.  j.  SIPPI.E. 


FATE   OR   GOD. 

Beyond  the  record  of  all  eldest  things, 
Beyond  the  rule  and  regions  of  past  time, 
From  out  Antiquity's  hoary-headed  rime, 

Looms  the  dread  phantom  of  a  King  of  Kings; 

Round  His  vast  brow  the  glittering  circlet  clings 
Of  a  thrice  royal  crown;   behind  Him  climb. 
O'er  Atlanteau  limbs  and  breast  sublime, 

The  somber  splendors  of  mysterious  wings. 

218 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

Deep  calms  of  measureless  power,  in  awful  state, 
Gird  and  uphold  Him;    a  miraculous  rod, 
To  heal  or  smite,  arms  His  infallible  hands; 
Known  in  all  ages,  worshiped  in  all  lands, 
Doubt  names  this  half-embodied  mystery— Fate, 
While  Faith,  with  holier  reverence,  whispers— God. 

H.    B.    STEPHENS. 


EVENTIDE. 

4'Gott  nur  kann  dir  geben  wahre  abendruhe."— Fallersleben. 

The  storm  is  past,  its  fury  spent, 

The  clouds  are  scattered  far  and  wide; 

The  angry  waters,  lashed  to  foam, 
Are  now  quite  pacified. 

The  fretful  winds  at  length  are  hushed, 
The  sun  but  gilds  the  mountain's  crest; 

The  shades  of  evening  steal  around, 
All  nature  sinks  to  rest. 

The  daylight  softly  fades  away, 
The  clouds  become  a  leaden  hue, 

The  day  is  done,  the  twilight  conies, 
The  stars  appear  in  view. 

Thou  too  my  heart,  whose  restless  beat 
Drives  on  life's  ever  fitful  tide, 

Rejoice  in  that  thou  too  shalt  find 
At  last,  thy  eventide. 


219 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

What  matter  then,  if  ruthless  fate 

From  tlioe  the  victor's  crown  withhold? 

What  matter  if  a  cheerless  world 
Has  chilled  thee  with  its  cold? 

Strive  on  despite  storm-laden  cloud, 

Or  shipwrecked  hopes,  fate's  darksome  trend; 
The  hours  are  few,  the  eve  draws  nigh 

When  all  thy  labors  end. 

GENESEKK  . 


NOBODY    KNOWS, 

Nobody  knows  the  dark  cold  wave, 

That  sweeps  o'er  my  soul  to-day; 
Nobody  knows  the  ceaseless  pain, 

That  is  wearing  my  heart  away. 
Though  the  sun  to-day  shines  merrily 

And  the  face  of  the  earth  is  fair; 
Down  deep  In  my  heart  is  a  gnawing  ache, 

And  a  vision  to  be  buried  lies  there. 

Nobody  knows  the  silent  remorse 

That  has  wrapt  my  heart  in  gloom; 
Nobody  knows  the  conscious  sting, 

As  it  sweeps  to  its  awful  doom. 
The  silent  conflict  nobody  knows, 

Nor  the  sorrow  borne  this  day; 
Still  the  mighty  love  of  the  Father's  hand 

Ever  upholdeth  this  fragile  clay. 


MISCELLANEOUS  AMD  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

Nobody  knows  the  grief  this  day, 
That  reigns  o'er  my  inmost  soul — 

No  angel's  voice,  no  glimpse  of  Heaven, 
Only  a  dream  of  the  heavenly  goal. 

The  wind  is  sobbing  about  the  eaves, 
As  louder  and  wilder  it  blows — 

O  spare  me  from  the  cold  cruel  winds, 
I'm  so  unhappy  and  nobody  knows. 

Shall  I  assume  a  smile  of  joy, 

Whence  nobody  knows  my  woe; 
Be  gay  and  feign  my  merriest  mood, 

Though  the  currents  are  raging  below? 
Shall  I  gaily  tread  o'er  the  flowery  mead, 

And  cull  me  the  ruddiest  rose? 
To  me  it  means  a  crushed,  bleading  heart, 

And  a  lingering  sorrow  that  nobody  knows. 

Nobody  knows,  ah  me  !    but  God, 

The  memories,  hopes  and  fears 
That  glide  like  shadows  across  my  soul, 

And  fill  my  eyes  with  tears. 
My  heart's  wild  throbbing  ne'er  will  cease, 

Till  its  beatings  are  stilled  'ueath  the  sod; 
Then  shall  I  be  saved  on  the  other  side? 

Ah,  nobody  knows  but  God. 

i,.  u.  G 

COLORADO. 

Thou  hast  thine  eyrie  in  the  lifted  lands, 
O  Colorado,  mountain-born  and  free; 
Unvexed  by  terrors  of  the  far-off  sea, 

On  earth's  high  crest  thy  favored  realm  expands. 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Nature  bestowed  thy  dower  with  lavish  hands, 
The  richest  gifts  within  her  treasury, 
Which  from  creation  she  reserved  for  thee, 

Thy  ore-veined  mountains  and  thy  golden  sands. 

Far  eastward,  ocean-vast,  thy  plains  extend; 
Westward  thy  snow-crowned  mountains  meet  the  sky; 

Heavens  of  unclouded  blue  above  thee  bend, 
And  the  bright  sun  looks  on  thee  lovingly. 

To  what  God  hath  so  wrought  may  great  souls  lend 
The  fadeless  luster  of  achievements  high. 

J.    D.    DIL,L,ENBACK. 


THE    BACHELOR'S    LAMENT. 


Down  through  the  vales  we  rushed  amain. 
I  looked  from  out  the  flying  train, 

And  gentle  flowers,  they  smiled  at  me 
With  gentle  eyes,  I  loved  to  see- 
But  oh  !    so  near,  and  yet  so  far- 
Each  might  as  well  have  been  a  star. 

Sad  are  my  thoughts,  yes,  sad  and  vain 

My  thoughts  upon  this  railroad  train. 

How  have  I  run  life's  journey  through 
Nor  picked  one  flower  that  near  me  grew. 

I  thought  'twere  easy  any  day 

To  choose  a  rosebud  by  the  way. 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

But  now  my  days  run  swiftly  by, 

The  truant  seasons,  how  they  fly; 
The  sweetest  roses,  others  culled 
And  by  their  charms  are  sweetly  lulled. 

Ah,  me  !   I  dare  not  choose  a  flower 

I  am  so  odd  (and  may  be  sour). 

Oh  !    Life  to  me  is  like  a.  train 

That  brings  me  less  of  joy  than  pain. 
The  flowers  I  see  seem  very  dear, 
For,  oh  !  they  are  so  very  near — 

They  are  so  near,  and  yet  so  far 

I  may  not  take  them  to  my  car. 

OLIVER   HOWARD. 


FIRST  FUNERAL  AT  NUGGETSVILLE. 

They  tenderly  bore  him  out  of  the  camp, 
And  laid  him  to  rest  'ueath  the  blasted  nine. 

Upon  a  rude  headboard  they  scribbled:   "Tramp  ! 
Was  killed  by  a  'shot'  at  the  Hopewell  mine." 

He  had  come  with  the  first  to  Nuggetville — 
A  homely  creature, — and  without  a  name — 

But  stuck  to  the  camp  with  a  dogged  will, 
Till  he  "cashed  in  his  chips"— he  died  "dead  game." 

A  hero,  indeed,  was  he  to  the  last; 
There  were  tears  of  joy  for  the  rescued  child 

He  dragged  from  the  ledge — from  the  "Giant"  blast- 
Out  over  the  fragments  of  boulders  piled. 

223 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

Then  down  upon  the  helpless  infant  threw 
Himself,  as  a  shield  from  the  show'r  of  stone. 

What  more,  I  ask  you,  could  a  poor  dog  do, 
By  his  canine  courage  and  skill  alone? 

No  parson  was  there  to  offer  a  pray'r, 
And  point  out  the  way  to  holier  lives; 

So  they  fired  a  salute  with  solemn  air, 
O'er  the  brave  dog's  grave,  with  their  45's. 

i,.  w.  CANADY. 


KEVEREND  JOHN. 

A  wild  rose  plucked  on  Carbonate  Hill, 

With  the  breath  of  the  mountains  in  each  pink  fold, 

A  tale  of  a  life  that  wrought  God's  will, 

In  a  camp  whose  passion  was  lust  for  gold. 

And  I  lay  them  both,  with  a  reverend  hand, 
As  a  tribute  to  worth,  on  a  good  man's  grave; 
The  fragrant  rose  from  the  silver  land, 
The  simple  story  the  miner  gave. 


"He  was  my  pastor,  least  ways— you  smile, 
But  I  go  to  church,  sir,  once  in  a  while, 

As  all  the  boys  do  off  an'  on. 
An'  I  never  missed  him  a  Sabbath  day— 
A  kindly  man  with  a  scholar's  way, 

The  miners  called  him  Reverend  John. 


224 


MISCELLANEOUS  AND  ANONYMOUS  POEMS. 

"When  he  came  to  the  camp  in  eighty-one 
The  Methodis'  people  looked  kind  o'  glum, 

For  they  wanted  a  different  sort  o'  man. 
A  man  of  muscle  was  what  they  asked, 
Who  could  pray  or  fight  as  the  ruin'it  tasked, 

And  whose  gospel  was  run  on  a  vigorous  plan. 

"But  they  found — though  his  sermons  was  rather  deep- 
That  a  strain  in  his  voice  made  sinners  weep 

When  he  told  Christ's  story  with  simple  art. 
An'  his  hands  so  slender,  an'  small,  an'  white, 
Was  mighty  with  strength  for  God  an'  right, 

While  his  sermons  wasn't  as  deep  as  his  heart. 

"He  owned  to  the  widest  sort  of  creed, 
'Twas  helpin'  sufferin'  ones  in  need, 

'Words  are  empty'  he  used  to  say. 
Always  to  feed  'em  first  was  his  plan, 
Then  to  talk  to  'em,  man  to  man, 

Many  a  soul  came  in  that  way. 

"He  pi-eached  a  gospel  that  one  could  feel, 
An'  backed  it  up  with  a  good  square  meal, 

A  helpin'  a  hungry  feller  on. 
'For  a  man  don't  grasp  theological  points 
When  he's  troubled  with  weakness  in  the  joints 

From  a  spell  o'  'fastin','  said  Reverend  John. 

"It's  many  a  prospector;   busted— well, 
In  a  manner  they  wouldn't  care  to  tell. 
An'  men  that  the  world  had  sat  upon 

225 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

That  he  gave  a  hand  to,  iii  hour  of  need, 
An'  started  again  with  bright  Godspeed; 

'They  are  all  His  children,'  said  Reverend  John. 

"An"  children,  they  natcherly  clung  to  him; 
For  a  little  one's  sight  aiiit  noways  dim, 

lu  a  matter  of  likin',  where  love  is  meant. 
He  had  'em  up  to  his  house  on  the  hill, 
Where  they  played  at  'blind  man'  an'  'Jack  and  Jill,' 

An'  he  told  'eiu  tales  to  their  heart's  content. 

"So  he  loved  an'  labored,  an'  helped  us  all, 
Till  he  heard  one  eveuin'  an  angel  call, 

So  he  folded  his  hands,  for  his  work  was  done. 
"Tis  a  beautiful  world,  but  He  knows  best, 
My  Father  giveth  his  loved  ones  rest  !' 

Then  he  said  with  a  smile,  'Dear  Lord,  I  come.' 

"An"  many  a  child's  dear  eyes  was  dim, 
When  they  came  to  look  their  last  on  him, 

While  sobs  was  heard  at  his  coffin  side, 
From  those  he  had  helped  with  heart  and  hand 
To  get  in  the  path  for  the  better  land, 

For  they  felt  that  a  loving  man  had  died. 

"An'  I  knew  when  I  looked  on  the  quiet  face, 
Where  lingered  a  smile  of  gentle  grace — 

A  smile  of  farewell  to  the  spirit  gone — 
That  the  King  he'd  served  through  Joy  an'  ills 
Had  met  his  soul  on  the  Heavenly  Hills, 

An'  a  royal  welcome  had  Reverend  John. 

ROSS   DKFORRIS. 

226 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 


IRotes. 


[Notes  have  been  prepared  on  all  authors  represented  in  this  volume,  excepting 
those  included  in  the  division  of  Miscellaneous  and  Anonymous  Poems.] 

ALLEN,  CHARLES  FLETCHER,  was  born  in  Wayne,  Me.,  and  graduated 
from  Cornell  University  in  1873,  with  special  honor  as  class  poet.  He  was 
two  years  private  secretary  to  Hon.  Andrew  D.  White,  president  of  the 
university ;  was  appointed  United  States  Consular  Agent  at  St.  George's, 
Bermuda,  in  1873 ;  in  1874,  special  signal  service  observer  at  Bermuda.  In 
1876  Mr.  Allen  became  engaged  in  the  oil  business  and  banking  at  Brad 
ford,  Penn.,  and  subsequently  resided  at  Pittsburgh  until  his  removal  to 
Denver  in  1888  to  accept  a  position  with  the  German  National  Bank, 
where  he  has  since  been  engaged.  To  Mr.  Allen,  literary  work  became  a 
relaxation  from  the  duties  of  an  active  business  life,  and  he  contributed 
many  stories  and  poems  to  various  publications,  including  the  New  York 
Tribune,  New  York  Graphic,  Cosmopolitan,  Great  Divide,  Sports  Afield,  Chicago 
Inter  Ocean,  and  newspaper  syndicates.  His  poem  at  the  unveiling  of  a 
bust  of  Andrew  D.  White,  at  Cornell  University,  1887,  was  most  favor 
ably  received  by  that  distinguished  audience. 

BOYD,  DAVID,  M.  A.  was  born  in  Antrim  County,  Ireland,  1833,  of 
Scotch-Irish  parents,  and  came  with  his  father's  family  to  the  United 
States  in  1851.  In  1859  he  entered  the  freshman  class  of  the  University  of 
Michigan,  and  at  the  close  of  his  junior  year,  1862,  enlisted  as  a  private 
in  the  Eighteenth  Michigan  Volunteer  Infantry.  After  twenty  months' 
service,  Mr.  Boyd  was  made  captain  of  Company  H  Fortieth  Colorado 
Troops,  having  enlisted  in  the  company  in  Tennessee.  He  was  mustered 
out  with  the  regiment,  April  X5, 1866,  and  returned  to  Ann  Arbor,  where  he 
was  graduated  (A.  B.)  the  same  year,  having  pursued  his  senior  studies  dur 
ing  his  last  year  of  army  life.  He  was  married  and  remained  in  Michigan 
till  1870,  when  he  joined  the  "Union  Colony"  which  settled  the  town  and 
vicinity  of  Greeley.  Mr.  Boyd  has  filled  many  positions  of  honor  and 
trust,  among  them  the  presidency  of  "Union  Colony"  and  of  the  State 
Board  of  Agriculture.  In  1892  he  was  elected  state  senator  from  Weld 
County,  having  run  as  an  independent  candidate,  endorsed  by  the  Popu 
list,  Democratic  and  Prohibition  Parties.  He  is  author  of  a  history  of  the 
Union  Colony,  published  in  1890. 

227 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

BORDICK,  WILLIAM  L.,  Ph.  D..  was  born  at  East  Greenwich,  R.  I., 
1860,  and  graduated  from  Wesleyan  University,  Connecticut,  1882.  In  the 
ensuing  ten  years  he  held  the  principalship  of  high  schools  in  Connecticut 
and  Massachusetts,  meanwhile  studying  law  and  theology,  and  taking 
three  years'  graduate  work  at  Harvard  University.  At  intervals  in  his 
professional  labors  Dr.  Burdick  found  time  for  extensive  travel  in  Europe 
and  America,  and  for  preparing  a  course  of  popular  lectures.  He  came  to 
Colorado  in  1892,  to  accept  the  principalship  of  the  State  Preparatory 
School  at  Boulder. 

CURTIS,  EMMA  (GHENT),  was  born  at  Frankfort,  Ind.  After  gradu 
ating  from  the  Frankfort  High  School,  1877,  she  engaged  in  teaching,  and 
later  was  employed  in  newspaper  work.  At  twenty-one,  owing  to  failing 
health.  Miss  Ghent  came  to  Colorado,  where  she  again  taught  school.  In 
1882  she  was  married  to  James  Curtis,  a  farmer  residing  near  Canon 
City.  Subsequently  Mrs.  Curtis  became  connected  with  various  reform 
movements  along  social  and  industrial  lines,  and  on  account  of  this  interest, 
received  the  appointment  as  commissioner  of  the  State  Industrial  School 
at  Golden.  She  was  a  member  of  the  committee  which  drafted  the  first 
platform  of  the  People's  Party  at  Cincinnati,  1891 ;  her  labors  along  polit 
ical  lines  being  mainly  in  behalf  of  the  political  equality  of  her  sex.  As 
a  writer,  Mrs.  Curtis  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  of  poems  and  short 
stories  to  the  Yo-uWif  Companion  and  other  journals,  and  has  published 
two  novels,  "The  Fate  of  a  Fool"  (1888),  and  "The  Administratrix" 
(1889). 

DAVIS,  CORA  M.  A.  (Bisuoi^,  was  born  in  Gennessee  County,  New 
York,  1841,  and  at  six  years  of  age  removed  with  her  parents  to  Rock 
County,  Wisconsin.  She  was  married  in  1857  to  F.  M.  Davis,  a  journalist, 
and  in  1875  came  to  Denver,  where  she  resided  mainly  until  her  death  in 
1885.  Her  poems  were  published  in  1887,  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Irnmor- 
talles." 

DE  LAN,  SURVILLE  J.,  lawyer,  was  born  in  the  West  Indies,  and  came 
to  the  United  States  in  1849.  For  twenty-five  years  he  was  owner  of  a 
large  jewelry  store  in  New  York  City.  He  visited  Leadville  in  1879  and 
wrote  for  the  New  York  8 tar,  the  first  articles  on  Leadville  that  appeared 
in  eastern  papers.  Later  Mr.  De  L»n  became  manager  of  a  Leadville 
mining  company,  and  also  practiced  law  before  the  land  office  in  that 
city.  In  1887  he  removed  to  Denver,  being  appointed  marshal  of  the 
supreme  court  of  the  State.  This  position  he  resigned  to  accept  the 
appointment  as  register  of  the  land  office  at  Glen  wood  Springs,  under  Mr. 

228 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

Cleveland's  first  administration.  As  president  of  the  board  of  trade  of 
Glenwood  Springs,  as  well  as  in  other  official  capacities,  Mr.  De  Lan  has 
done  much  active  work  for  the  encouragement  of  local  interests,  and  has 
contributed  many  articles  to  eastern  publications  in  behalf  of  his  state. 
His  poems  were  published,  1889,  in  a  souvenir  volume  entitled  "Crude 
Ore." 

FAR  HAND,  MAY  (SPENCER),  was  born  in  Philadelphia,  1868.  She  spent 
her  childhood  in  Chicago,  and  at  an  early  age  came  to  Colorado  with  her 
mother,  where  the  latter  soon  afterwards  died.  At  fourteen  Miss  Spencer 
was  in  Pueblo,  already  a  contributor  to  prominent  newspapers.  Her 
poems  were  first  published  in  The  Denver  Inter  Ocean,  then  owned  by  Henry 
L.  Feldwisch,  who  noted  and  encouraged  her  genius.  Since  that  time  she 
has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Denver  and  Chicago  press.  Owing 
to  failing  eyesight.  Miss  Spencer  never  attended  school  after  the  age  of 
eleven,  but  fondness  for  reading  and  keen  perceptive  powers  brought  her 
a  rare  fund  of  knowledge.  She  was  married,  1888,  to  Captain  D.  E.  Far- 
rand,  of  Denver,  where  she  has  since  resided. 

FIELD,  EUGENE,  journalist,  was  born  in  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  1850,  but  most 
of  his  early  life  was  spent  in  Massachusetts  and  other  parts  of  New 
England.  He  entered  Williams  College  in  1868,  continuing  his  studies 
later  at  the  University  of  Missouri.  In  1872  he  visited  Europe  and  on  his 
return  became  a  reporter  for  the  St.  Louis  Everting  Journal.  From  this 
time  Mr.  Field  rose  rapidly  in  the  newspaper  world.  In  1875-6  he  was  city 
editor  of  the  St.  Joseph  (Mo.)  Gazette;  later  an  editorial  writer  on  the  St. 
Louis  Journal,  and  became  managing  editor  of  the  Denver  Tribune  in  1882. 
Here  Mr.  Field's  genius  for  newspaper  work  appeared  at  its  best  and  con 
tributed  to  the  remarkable  excellence  which  that  journal  maintained  for 
several  years.  During  this  period  he  also  began  writing  verse,  gathering 
from  Colorado  life  the  material  for  many  of  his  best  poetical  productions. 
Since  1883  he  has  resided  mainly  in  Chicago,  and  has  been  a  contributor 
to  the  Record  (formerly  Morning  News),  of  that  city.  Mr.  Field  has  pub 
lished  a  number  of  books,  among  which  are  the  "Tribune  Primer"  (1886), 
"  A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse  "  (1889),  "A  Little  Book  of  Profitable 
Tales  "  (1889),  and  "The  Holy  Cross  and  Other  Tales"  (1893). 

GLENDINNING,  WILLIAM,  was  born  in  Dunsfield,  Perthshire,  Scotland, 
1859,  and  very  early  in  life  removed  with  his  parents  to  Lancashire, 
England,  where  he  attended  school.  At  ten  he  entered  a  printing  office, 
three  miles  from  his  home  and  walked  this  distance  to  his  work  daily,  for 
two  years.  Later  he  learned  bookkeeping,  and  pursued  this  vocation  in 

229 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

New  York,  Detroit  and  Colorado  Springs.  Mr.  Glendinning's  first  verses 
appeared  when  he  was  fifteen,  in  the  Family  Herald,  at  that  time  one  of 
the  leading  papers  of  London,  and  were  so  favorably  received  by  the  pub 
lic  that  they  were  set  to  music  by  an  eminent  composer.  Since  coming 
to  this  country  his  contributions  have  appeared  mainly  in  New  York, 
Michigan  and  Colorado  papers.  His  beautiful  poem  "Sing  to  Me  Mother" 
is  a  loving  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  departed  mother. 

1 1  \-K  i.i.i..  PROF.  THOMAS  NELSON,  was  born  in  Chautauqua  County, 
N.  Y.,  and  educated  at  Miami  University,  Ohio,  where  he  was  a  college- 
mate  of  President  Harrison.  After  studying  theology  in  New  York  and  at 
Andover,  Mass.,  he  was  called  to  the  pastorate  of  a  Presbyterian  Church 
in  Washington.  D.  C.  From  1854  to  1858  he  remained  at  the  National 
Capital,  taking  an  active  interest  in  the  great  abolition  movement,  and 
was  called  to  Boston  because  of  a  speech  which  he  delivered  before  the 
Synod  of  Virginia  against  its  proslavery  secession  from  the  general 
assembly  in  1857.  Soon  after  settling  in  Boston  the  war  began,  and  Mr. 
Haskell  wrote  his  first  three  books  for  "The  Boys  in  Blue,"  and  raised 
large  sums  of  money  in  the  North  for  their  sanitary  comfort  and 
moral  encouragement.  Owing  to  failing  health  he  was  sent  by  his  con 
gregation  on  a  European  trip  but  returned  only  slightly  improved.  He 
retired  from  the  pulpit  and  accepted  the  chair  of  logic,  literature  and 
political  economy  in  the  University  of  Wisconsin.  Previous  to  that  time 
he  was  married  to  the  youngest  daughter  of  President  Edwards  of  An 
dover  Seminary — and  at  one  time  private  secretary  to  Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe. 
Prof.  Haskell  came  to  Colorado  in  1873  for  the  health  of  a  daughter  in 
whose  honor  he  started  Colorado  College  in  1874.  He  is  author  of  a  num 
ber  of  prose  works  including  "Soldier's  Mission,1'  "Life  of  Henry  Have- 
lock,"  "Echoes  of  Inspired  Ages."  "Civil  Ethics  in  the  United  States," 
etc.  His  poetical  publications  are  as  follows:  Vol.  i,  "The  Legend  of 
Twin  Lakes."  (1889),  dealing  with  the  Indian  question;  Vol.  n,  "Songs 
at  Home  and  Abroad,  In  Peace  and  War,"  (1889),  Vol.  in,  including 
"Women  of  the  Bible,"  and  "Wives  of  the  Presidents,"  (1892).  His  spon 
taneous  "Answer  to  Redpath's  Eulogy  on  Jefferson  Davis,"  published  in 
The  Commonwealth  magazine  attracted  much  interest  north  and  south. 

HAVENS,  Mus.  JAMES,  was  born  at  the  Wiandotte  Indian  Mission, 
Upper  Sandusky,  O.  At  the  age  of  ten  she  went  to  Marion.  O.,  to  attend 
school,  and  early  evinced  strong  literary  inclinations,  her  first  composi 
tion  being  a  poem.  Most  of  her  earlier  efforts  in  verse  were  in  the  inter 
ests  of  temperance  and  the  abolition  of  slavery.  She  thus  gained  the 

230 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

attention  of  Neal  Dow,  Philip  Brooks,  and  other  reformers  who  did  much 
for  the  advancement  of  the  earnest  little  poetess.  At  fifteen  she  was 
married  to  James  Haven,  who  shared  her  philanthropic  spirit,  and  theirs 
became  the  home  of  a  number  of  motherless  children.  Mrs.  Havens  con 
tinued  a  contributor  to  magazines  and  leading  newspapers,  and  in  1873 
became  a  regular  correspondent  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  News.  Owing  to 
her  active  interest  in  the  temperance  cause  the  Woman's  Christian  Tem 
perance  Union,  in  its  national  convention  of  1884,  selected  her  as  national 
superintendent  and  lecturer  for  the  department  of  opium  and  narcotics. 
She  continued  this  work  until  chosen  by  the  local  temperance  organiza 
tion  as  matron  of  the  new  Arapahoe  County  Jail.  Here  her  philanthropic 
spirit  has  enabled  her  to  achieve  much  in  the  cause  of  prison  reform. 

HAZLITT,  IDA  ESTELLE  (CROUCH),  is  a  native  of  Henderson  County, 
111.,  and  a  graduate  of  the  Illinois  Normal  University.  She  taught  in  the 
high  schools  of  the  state,  studied  music  in  Chicago,  came  to  Cheyenne, 
Wyo.,  in  1890,  and  has  since  been  engaged  in  teach  ing  and  newspaper  work 
in  that  State  and  in  Colorado.  Miss  Crouch  inherited  a  passion  for  poetry 
and  published  verses  at  fourteen;  but  subsequent  interest  in  public  affairs 
led  her  to  become  a  frequent  contributor  of  timely  prose  articles  on  public 
questions  to  the  press.  She  was  married,  1892,  to  Mr.  Vallandingham 
Hazlitt,  of  Rico,  Colo. 

HILL,  ALICE  (POLK)  ,  is  a  native  of  Shelby  County,  Ky.  She  came  to 
Denver  in  1873,  engaged  in  teaching,  and  became  prominent  among  edu 
cators  and  promoters  of  literature  and  music.  Aside  from  occasional 
contributions  to  magazine  literature,  Mrs.  Hill  published,  1884,  an  anecdotal 
history  entitled  "Tales  of  the  Pioneers  of  Colorado.''  which  won  public 
favor.  She  has  for  many  years  been  a  leader  in  social  and  literary  circles 
in  Denver,  and  is  the  founder  of  the  Round-table  Literary  Club,  which, 
under  her  presidency,  has  for  six  years  been  cherished  by  a  group  of  Den 
ver's  most  intelligent  ladies,  as  a  students'  retreat. 

HOWARD,  SARAH  ELISABETH  (HOWARD),  was  born  at  Easton,  Mass. 
She  gained  an  education  mainly  by  home  study,  and  taught  school  for  a 
number  of  years.  Miss  Howard  inherited  the  gift  of  poesy  from  her 
mother  and  began  writing  verses  for  the  press  at  an  early  age,  signing 
them  with  the  last  letters  of  her  name — "H.  H.  D."  Her  writings,  which 
have  been  largely  for  children,  have  appeared  in  Sunshine,  Little  Ones  and 
Nursery  and  the  Youth's  Companion.  Also  she  has  published  articles  of 
household  interest  in  Good  Housekeeping  and  The  Ladies  Repository,  and  dis- 

231 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

cussions  on  farm  topics  in  the  Rural  New  Yorker.  In  1868  she  was  married 
to  Albert  E.  Howard  of  Westbridgewater,  Mass.  They  removed  four 
years  later  to  Greeley,  Colo. ,  where  Mr.  Howard  engaged  extensively  in 
farming. 

JACKSON,  HELEN  MARIE  (FISKE),  novelist  and  poet,  was  born  at 
Amherst,  Mass..  1831,  the  daughter  of  Prof.  Nathan  W.  Fiske,  of  Amherst 
College.  She  received  an  education  at  the  Ipswich.  Mass..  Female  Semi 
nary,  and  was  married  1852,  to  Capt.  E.  B.  Hunt  of  the  United  States 
Army ;  residing  with  him  at  various  army  posts  until  his  death  in  1863. 
From  1866  to  1872  her  home  was  at  Newport,  R.  I.  Mrs.  Hunt  wrote  but 
little  for  the  public  until  1865,  when  she  began  to  contribute  verses  to  the 
New  York  Nation,  following  these  with  poems  and  prose  articles  in  the 
Independent  and  Hearth  and  Home.  Two  winters  spent  in  Colorado  Springs 
for  the  sake  of  her  health  led  to  her  marriage  in  1875  to  Mr.  William  S. 
Jackson  of  that  city.  Here  she  made  her  home  until  her  death  in  1885. 
The  last  ten  years  of  Mrs.  Jackson's  life  was  devoted  largely  to  efforts  for 
alleviating  the  wrongs  of  the  Indians,  and  on  her  death-bed  she  dictated 
a  touching  letter  to  the  President  of  the  United  States  on  behalf  of  this 
unfortunate  people.  Her  first  book  on  the  question  was  entitled,  "A  Cen 
tury  of  Dishonor,''  published  in  1881.  This  was  followed  in  1884  by 
"Ramona,"  a  novel  dealing  with  the  same  subject,  and  which  as  a  literary 
work,  gained  for  its  author  a  place  among  the  first  of  American  female 
novelists.  Other  works  of  Mrs.  Jackson  are.  "Bits  of  Travel,"  (1873), 
"Bits  of  Talk  About  Home  Matters,"  (1873).  'JSonnets  and  Lyrics, "  (1876), 
"Mercy  Philbrick's  Choice,"  (1876),  and  "Hetty's  Strange  Story,"  (1877), 
the  last  two  being  novels.  She  wrote  also  a  number  of  books  for  children. 

MACCARTHT,  FITZ-JAMES,  better  known  in  Colorado  and  the  West  gen 
erally,  by  his  HOW,  deplume  "Fitz-Mac"  (which  is  made  up  of  the  first  part 
of  both  his  names),  was  born  and  educated  in  Onondaga  County,  N.  Y. 
He  taught  school  for  several  years  in  Cumberland  County,  Penn., 
meanwhile  doing  some  writing  in  both  prose  and  verse,  and  gaining  some 
practical  experience  in  journalism.  He  came  to  Colorado  in  1883  to  take 
the  position  of  "night  editor"  of  the  Denver  Tribune,  whose  editor-in-rhief 
was  his  old  time  friend  Mr.  O.  H.  Rothacker,  and  whose  managing  editor 
was  the  now  distinguished  literator,  Mr.  Eugene  Field.  After  a  few 
months  of  desk  work  Fitz-Mac  took  to  the  road  as  staff  correspondent 
and  from  the  start  met  with  brilliant  success.  He  afterwards  purchased 
the  Leadville  Herald  from  Senator  Tabor  and  united  it  with  Mr.  C.  C. 
Davis'  paper  the  Democrat,  of  which  he  was  at  the  time  editor,  and  con- 

232 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NO'IES. 

tinued  for  a  time  editor  of  the  Her  aid- Democrat.  He  has  been  prominent 
in  politics  ever  since  his  connection  with  journalism  in  Colorado,  and 
he  then  contributed  to  the  Colorado  Springs  Gazette  a  remarkable  series  of 
personal  pen  sketches  called  "Political  Portraits,"  which  attracted  wide 
attention.  Fitz-Mac  is  now  best  known  to  the  public  as  a  writer  of  west 
ern  stories.  For  the  most  part  these  have  been  published  locally  and 
their  success  though  decided,  has  been  local.  He  was  editor  of  the  Denver 
Daily  World  in  1887-8. 

McCLURG,  VIRGINIA  (DONAGHE),  poet,  journalist,  archaeologist  and 
lecturer,  is  a  native  of  Virginia, 'and,  like  some  others  of  our  group  of 
authors,  her  early  literary  work  was  done  under  Southern  and  Eastern 
influences.  Mrs.  McClurg  comes  of  a  distinguished  lineage,  which  num 
bers  among  its  historic  personages,  the  D'Aubigne  who  fought  at 
Hastings,  and  Hallam  the  English  historian, — and  embraces  many  of  the 
aristocratic  families  of  colonial  Virginia.  At  an  early  age  Miss  Donaghe 
contributed  stories  and  verse  to  the  magazines,  and  served  a  long  term  as 
newspaper  correspondent.  In  1887  she  came  to  Colorado  Springs,  seeking 
renewed  health,  and  entered  upon  active  journalism,  filling  an  editorial 
position  on  a  Colorado  Springs  daily  for  three  years.  She  then  became  in 
terested  in  the  pre-historic  remains  of  the  Southwestern  United  States,  and 
conducted  expeditions  within  their  borders  at  a  period  when  Indians  were 
hostile  and  exploration  was  attended  with  great  privations  and  hardships. 
One  of  the  results  of  her  studies  and  excavations  has  been  the  preparation 
of  a  series  of  lectures  on  the  "Pre-Historic  Southwest,''  which  she  deliv 
ered  at  the  Columbian  Exposition.  In  1889  Miss  Donaghe  was  married  to 
Mr.  Gilbert  McClurg,  a  journalist  and  publisher,  formerly  of  the  house  of 
A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago.  Since  her  marriage,  and  after  a  trip 
abroad,  Mrs.  McClurg  has  spent  the  winters  in  Denver  engaging  in 
various  departments  of  woman's  work  for  woman.  Her  sonnets  and 
poems  occasionally  appear  in  the  Century  and  Cosmopolitan  magazines  and 
Review  of  Revises,  and  have  elicited  strong  commendations  from  the  New 
York  Nation  and  Independent.  She  is  the  author  of  "Picturesque  Utah," 
"Picturesque  Colorado,"  and  "Colorado  Favorites,7'  a  collection  of  verses 
descriptive  of  Colorado  flowers.  The  latest  of  her  books,  the  sumptuous 
"Seven  Sonnets  of  Sculpture,"  has  wontho  praise  of  critics  generally. 

McDoNOUGH,  CORINNE,  is  a  native  of  Elisabeth,  Penn.,  and  was  grad 
uated  from  thb  Elisabeth  Female  Seminary.  She  subsequently  adopted 
music  as  a  profession  and  taught  classes  in  Pittsburgh,  Helena,  Mont., 
and  Denver;  residing  in  the  last  named  city  since  1887.  Miss  McDonough 

233 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

has  written  for  the  press  for  a  number  of  years,  principally  in  the  inter 
est  of  the  United  Presbyterian  Church  and  the  Woman's  Christian  Tem 
perance  Union.  A  volume  of  her  prose  and  verse  has  been  collected  for 
publication. 

MclNTYRE.  ROBERT,  D.  D.,  was  born  at  Selkirk,  Scotland,  1851.  He 
is  a  descendant  of  a  noble  Scottish  clan  which  included  originally  the 
Hereditary  Foresters  of  the  Stewarts,  Lords  of  Lome, — and  to  which  tie- 
longed  in  later  years  one  of  the  most  gifted  poets  of  Scotland,  Duncan 
Ban  Mclntyre,  born  in  1724.  Our  poet  at  the  age  of  seven  came  to  Phila 
delphia  where  he  attended  school  and  later  learned  the  brick-layer's  trade. 
In  early  manhood  he  became  a  pronounced  infidel  and  was  for  a  time 
president  of  an  infldel  society.  His  conversion  at  the  age  of  twenty-four 
led  him  to  prepare  for  the  ministry,  which  he  entered,  in  the  Illinois  con 
ference,  in  1877.  He  served  as  pastor  in  Marshall,  111.,  Charleston  and 
Chicago,  and  came  from  the  latter  city  to  Denver  in  1891.  During  his 
pastorate  at  Trinity  Church.  Denver,  Dr.  Mclntyre  has  become  widely 
known  as  a  pulpit  orator  and  lecturer.  His  poems  have  recently  been 
collected  for  publication. 

NICHOLS,  MARTHA  (BATLOK),  was  born  at  Salem,  O.,  1857.  At  an 
early  age  she  moved  with  her  parents  to  Angolia.  Ind..  where  she  received 
her  education,  and  where  she  was  married,  1871,  to  John  H.  Nichols.  On 
her  husband's  death,  ten  years  later,  Mrs.  Nichols  came  west,  locating 
first  near  the  Pine  Ridge  Reservation  in  Nebraska.  Here  the  Indian  in 
his  native  grotesqueness  furnished  her  first  strong  incentive  to  literary 
work,  and  she  began  writing  numerous  sketches  of  their  ways  of  life. 
These  were  readily  accepted  and  published  by  the  Youth's  Companiott,  and 
other  eastern  journals.  In  recent  years  her  stories  and  poems  have 
appeared  mainly  in  The  Yankee  lilcule.  and  Omaha  papers.  Mrs.  Nichols 
came  to  Colorado  in  1889  and  settled  in  Boulder. 

FADES,  MARY  SYLVESTER,  was  born  in  Josephine  County,  Ore.,  but 
her  early  life  was  spent  in  West  Virginia,  in  the  valley  of  the  Ohio,  where 
the  Paden  homestead  has  stood  for  several  generations.  The  family  is  of 
Scotch  descent,  and  the  name  was  originally  spelled  "Peden;''  Alex 
ander  Peden.  the  Scotch  covenanter  and  phrophet  being  among  the  ances 
tors.  Miss  Paden  received  her  education  in  Cincinnati,  graduating  from 
the  Woodward  High  School  and  Cincinnati  Normal  College,  also  study 
ing  subsequently  in  the  art  academy  of  that  city.  She  came  to  Denver  in 
1889  and  has  been  engaged  as  an  artist,  newspaper  reporter,  editor  of 
special  departments,  and  general  stenographer,  in  addition  to  occasional 

234 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

literery  work.  Her  recent  poems  have  appeared  mainly  in  Lippencotfs 
Magazine.  Though  Miss  Paden's  writings  have  elicited  commendations 
from  Longfellow.  Holmes.  Riley  and  other  national  poets,  they  are  com 
paratively  little  known  in  Colorado  and  the  West. 

PRITCHARD,  ANNA,  was  born  in  Maysville,  Mo.,  and  at  six  years  of 
age  removed  with  her  parents  to  near  Pueblo,  Colo.  Her  early  education 
was  conducted  under  her  father's  care.  She  was  prepared  for  college  at 
the  State  Preparatory  School,  and  entered  the  freshman  class  at  the  State 
University  in  1894.  Her  few  contributions  of  verse  and  prose  at  her  early 
age.  have  shown  exceptional  care  in  their  production. 

RICHAKDSON,  MARION  (MuiR),  was  born  in  Chicago,  1859.  During  her 
infancy  her  parents  came  to  Colorado,  locating  among  the  mines  of  Gil- 
pin  County.  At  the  Indian  outbreak  of  '64  the  family  went  east,  but 
returned  three  years  later  and  in  1870  settled  at  Morrison.  Miss  Muir 
studied  art  and  wood  engraving  in  Denver  at  the  age  of  twenty,  but,  fail 
ing  in  health,  returned  to  country  life.  Later  she  became  assistant  editor 
of  the  excellent  but  short-lived  weekly  Mercury,  published  in  Denver,  and 
also  worked  for  a  time  on  the  Rocky  Mountain  News.  Mr.  Dana,  of  the 
New  York  Sun,  and  Mr.  Whittier  noted  and  commended  her  literary 
efforts,  which  encouragement  led  her  to  become  a  frequent  contributor  to 
eastern  journals.  On  her  marriage  in  1886  she  removed  to  Southern 
Utah. 

ROTHACKER,  OTTOMAR  H.,  journalist,  was  a  native  of  Cincinnati,  born 
about  1853.  His  father,  a  member  of  a  notable  German  family,  had  been 
a  student  at  Heidelberg  University,  and  was  expatriated  with  Carl 
Schurz  and  many  other  German  young  men  at  the  breaking  out  of  the 
students'  rebellion  of  1849.  He  afterwards  edited  German  newspapers  in 
America.  Both  parents  possessed  literary  talents  of  a  high  order,  which 
Ottomar  inherited.  He  wrote  comparatively  little,  however,  of  either 
prose  or  verse,  and  of  the  latter  scarcely  anything  has  been  preserved. 
Mr.  Rothacker  was  from  1878  to  the  spring  of  1884  editor-in-chief  of  the 
Denver  Tribune,  which  during  the  period  of  his  control  took  a  high  rank 
among  the  newspapers  of  the  country.  He  died  in  1889  at  Omaha  while 
editor  of  the  daily  Republican  of  that  city. 

[NOTE— As  the  two  chance  poems  we  have  secured  cannot  be  claimed 
to  represent  the  best  products  of  Mr.  Rothacker's  remarkable  genius,  it 
perhaps  is  only  justice  to  depart  from  our  rule  and  insert  a  short  criticism 
— an  excerpt  from  a  tribute  furnished  us  by  "Fitz-Mac'":J 

"His  (Rothacker's)  mind,  his  temperament  and  his  character  strongly  resem 
bled  that  of  the  poet,  Shelly,  and  though  his  genius  was  not  as  productive,  I  think 

235 


EVENINGS   WITH  COLORADO  POETS.  • 

it  undoubtedly  touched  as  high  a  mark  as  Shelly's.  He  had  from  childhood  the 
same  natural  mastery  as  Shelly  of  poetical  technique.  In  the  one  it  was  encouraged, 
cultivated  and  developed;  in  the  other  quite  neglected.  Rothacker  had  clearly  the 
highest  literary  genius  of  any  man  I  have  ever  personally  known— the  clearest  con 
ception  of  the  poetical.  He  was  not  simply  a  writer  of  clever  verses  containing 
trite  and  obvious  reflections  on  the  sorrows,  the  joys  and  the  philosophy  of  life;  he 
had  the  deep,  clear,  inspired  vision  of  the  true  poet.  I  regret  that  the  two  exam 
ples,  clipped  from  my  scrap  book,  which  are  all  I  am  able  to  contribute,  are  not 
entirely  fitted  to  sustain  the  high  estimate  I  have  written,  but  most  of  his  efforts 
were  published  fugitively  and  have  probably  never  been  collected.  When  we  con 
sider,  however,  that  the  "Love  Conquers  Death,"  was  written  at  the  age  of  seven 
teen  or  eighteen,  and  that  it  was  but  the  effort  of  a  few  moments,  his  remarkable 
genius  will  be  conceded.  1  remember  well  his  sitting  down  at  my  writing  table  one 
day— we  were  rooming  together  at  the  time-  and  writing  this  oft  as  rapidly  as  most 
people  would  write  a  letter,  and  tossing  the  sheet  across  the  table  to  me.  This  poem 
was  written  in  relation  to  some  observations  I  had  previously  made,  or  rather  that 
we  had  made  together,  in  conversation,  on  death  and  the  hereafter.  The  *'  Nell " 
was  inspired  by  the  memory  of  a  very  beautiful  girl  of  his  own  age  to  whom  I  had 
introduced  him.  her  family  being  friends  of  mine." 

SCHOFIELD.  FRANK  CHAIN,  was  born  at  Lexington,  Mo.,  1865.  At  an 
early  age  he  lost  both  parents,  and  soon  afterwards  began  to  earn  a  live 
lihood  by  his  own  efforts,  coming  to  Colorado  at  nineteen  to  teach  school. 
He  prepared  for  college  at  Athens,  O.1,  and  in  1891  entered  the  Denver 
University,  where  he  remained  three  years,  goine  thence  to  Rochester 
University.  N.  Y.  He  was  licensed  to  preach  in  1889.  by  the  First  Baptist 
Church  of  Denver,  and  since  then  has  been  engaged  in  preaching  in  con 
nection  with  school  work. 

SEABURY,  EMMA  (PLATTER),  was  born  near  the  City  of  Toronto, 
Canada,  and  spent  her  girlhood  days  in  the  Convent  of  Losetto.  She  was 
married  in  1877  to  Mr.  W.  G.  Seabury  of  Boston,  and  has  resided  in  a 
number  of  states.  She  is  well  known  to  readers  of  many  periodicals,  and 
during  her  residence  in  Colorado  was  a  very  frequent  contributor  to  the 
excellent  Commonwealth  Magazine,  published  in  Denver  from  1889  to  1891. 
Since  1891  her  home  has  been  in  Pittsburgh.  Kas. 

STAPLETON,  PATIENCE  (TUCKER),  was  born  1861,  in  Wiscasset,  a 
beautiful  old  seaport  town  on  the  Sheepscott  in  Maine.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  retired  ship  captain  and  came  of  a  family  that  had  followed 
the  sea  for  generations.  She  was  educated  at  the  famous  old  Moravian 
Seminary  of  Bethlehem,  Penn.,  and  evinced  a  strong  inclination  for  liter 
ary  work  from  her  earliest  childhood,  having  written  many  verses  and 
plays  at  a  very  early  age,  nearly  all  containing  bright  promise  of  the 

236 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

genius  for  the  creation  of  high-class  fiction  which  characterized  her  sub 
sequent  work.  James  T.  Fields  took  great  interest  in  her  earlier  efforts 
for  publication  and  her  first  success  in  that  direction  was  a  very  touching 
sketch*  called  "Jim,"  published  in  the  Youth's  Companion  before  she  was 
eighteen.  She  came  to  Denver  in  1881  and  in  1883  was  married  to  William 
Stapleton,  then  editor  of  the  Rocky  Mountain  News  and  later  editor  of 
the  Denver  Republican.  During  her  brief  and  brilliant  career  as  an  author 
she  did  an  immense  amount  of  work.  Her  published  short  stories  number 
ing  hundreds,  rank  among  the  best  produced  by  any  American  author, 
while  her  novels  "My  Jean,"  "Kady,"  "My  Sister's  Husband,"  and  "Babe 
Murphy,"  and  a  tragedy  in  blank  verse,  "Rose-Geranium,"  commanded 
alike  the  favor  of  the  critics  and  the  public.  Her  last  work  appeared  in  a 
series  of  very  powerful  editorial  articles  in  favor  of  equal  suffrage,  in 
the  Denver  Republican  in  the  campaign  of  1893,  and  exerted  a  powerful 
influence  in  securing  to  the  women  of  Colorado  the  voting  franchise.  Her 
death  occurred  in  November  1893. 

STODDARD,  ETHELTN  ALICE,  was  born  in  Grundy  County,  la.,  1875. 
She  early  showed  a  great  love  for  books  and  before  the  age  of  seven  had 
read  Longfellow's  "Evangeline,"  of  which  she  became  very  fond.  On 
account  of  nervous  trouble,  caused  by  too  studious  habits  at  so  early  an 
age,  she  remained  out  of  school  until  her  fourteenth  year,  when  she 
entered  the  high  school  at  Florence,  Colo.,  completing  the  course  with 
rapidity  and  great  credit.  In  1892  she  entered  the  freshman  class  at  the 
State  University  and  continued  her  studies  there  until  her  death  in  May 
1894.  Her  writings  consist  of  short  productions  in  verse  and  prose,  in 
both  of  which  she  evinced  exceptional  literary  talent.  Her  poems  in 
cluded  in  this  volume  were  written  between  the  ages  of  fifteen  and 
nineteen. 

TALBOT,  S.  MARIE  (WESTCOTT),  was  born  at  Clyde,  N.  Y. ,  and  educated 
at  St.  Mary's  Hall,  Burlington,  N.  J.  She  began  writing  early  in  life,  at 
sixteen  winning  a  prize  for  essay  work  from  the  North  American  Magazine. 
One  of  Miss  Wescott's  early  articles  was  contributed  to  the  Chicago  Times, 
then  controlled  by  Wilber  F.  Story  and  Mr.  Wilkie,  who  recognized  her 
ability  and  gave  her  a  position  on  the  contributing  staff.  She  found 
remunerative  employment  in  essay  and  story  writing,  and  published  a 
number  of  brochures  of  a  memorial  character,  which  have  received  favor 
able  notice  from  critics.  Her  writings  include  comparatively  few  poems, 
but  several  of  these  have  been  widely  copied.  She  was  married  to  Hon. 
George  D.  Talbot,  a  member  of  the  Denver  bar,  and  became  a  resident  of 
Denver  in  1879. 

237 


EVENINGS  WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

WABDELL,  FANNIE  ISABEL.  (SHERRICK).  is  a  native  of  St.  Louis,  and 
daughter  of  a  well  known  business  man  of  that  place.  Much  of  her  early 
life  was  spent  in  California  and  among  the  mountains  of  Colorado,  where 
many  of  her  best  productions  in  verse  were  written.  Her  collected  poems 
were  published,  1888,  in  a  volume  entitled  "Star  Dust."  Miss  Sherrick 
was  married  in  1891  to  Mr.  John  B.  Wardell,  a  prominent  merchant  of 
Aspen,  and  has  since  resided  in  that  city.  Continued  ill  health  has  caused 
her  temporarily  to  give  up  literary  labors. 

WARMAN,  CY,  was  born  in  southern  Illinois,  1852,  and  grew  up  on  a 
farm.  In  early  life  he  married,  came  to  Colorado  and  secured  employment 
as  an  engineer  on  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande  Railroad.  Mr.  Warman's 
early  career  in  the  West  was  marked  by  a  continuous  struggle  against 
poverty  and  ill  health ;  to  which  was  added  a  severe  affliction  in  the  loss 
of  his  wife  and  two  children.  Amid  these  discouragements  he  began  writ 
ing  bits  of  verse,  and  attracted  thus  the  interest  of  friends  who  encouraged 
him  to  start  a  paper.  Attempts  were  made,  first  in  Salida  and  later  in 
Denver  in  the  office  of  The  Itoad,  published  by  his  friend  Herbert  George. 
Each  effort  ended  in  financial  failure.  He  next  worked  as  reporter  on  the 
Rocky  Mountain  News,  and  later  on  the  Times.  Meanwhile  his  verses  found 
their  way  to  the  eastern  press,  and  from  this  came  the  first  demand  for 
his  talent.  In  1892  he  started  the  Creede  Chronical,  which,  however,  shared 
the  fate  of  his  other  papers.  The  same  year  he  was  married  to  Myrtle 
Marie  Jones,  for  whom  the  words  of  the  widely  known  song,  "Sweet 
Marie,"  were  written.  Mr.  Warman's  recent  prose  writings  have  ap 
peared  principally  in  McClure's  Magazine. 

WASON,  HARRIET  (CASTLE),  was  born  at  Kent,  England,  and  came  to 
Philadelphia  at  eight  years  of  age.  She  studied  in  the  Woman's  Medical 
College  of  Pennsylvania,  and  later  married  and  came  to  southern  Colorado 
in  the  early  booming  days  of  the  San  Juan  country.  Her  impressions  of 
the  new  life  and  surroundings,  with  their  utterly  different  phases,  are 
vividly  portrayed  in  "Letters  from  Colorado."  a  collection  of  her  poems 
which  gained  considerable  attention  in  the  East.  She  resided  for  a  time 
at  Del  Norte  and  subsequently  located  near  Wagon  .Wheel  Gap,  where  she 
wrote  and  published  the  "Letters."  Mrs.  Wasonis  the  author  of  unpub 
lished  poetical  works,  among  them  "Guhmare,"  tide  of  the  Afghan  war. 
Her  husband  is  Martin  V.  Wason,  an  agriculturalist  well  known  in  his 
section  of  the  State. 

WESTCOTT,  HARRIET  (LANCASTER),  "GWENDOLINE."  is  a  native  of  New 
Carlisle,  Ind.,  and  was  a  daughter  of  the  learned  Rev.  Henry  Lancaster. 

* 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 

She  received  an  education  at  the  New  Carlisle  Collegiate  Institute,  and  St. 
Mary's  Academy,  Notre  Dame.  Miss  Lancaster's  poems,  both  before  and 
since  her  coming  to  this  state,  were  contributed  mainly  to  eastern  journals ; 
a  few  have  appeared  in  Colorado  papers,  always  over  the  pseudonym 
'Gwendoline. "  Her  prose  writing  has  been  devoted  chiefly  to  the  interests 
of  temperence  reform,  of  which  she  has  been  a  strong  advocate.  In  1885 
she  was  married  to  Mr.  C.  A.  Westcott,  a  lawyer,  now  merchant  of  Beulah, 
Colo.  Mrs.  Westcott  was  one  of  the  first  members  of  the  Western  Asso 
ciation  of  Writers,  an  organization  in  whose  membership  most  of  the 
states  west  of  the  Allegheny  mountains  are  represented. 

WHITNEY,  J.  ERNEST,  born  at  Cornwall,  Conn.,  1858.  He  prepared  for 
college  at  the  Rockville,  Conn.,  High  School,  and  was  graduated  from 
Yale  University,  1882,  having  earned  this  education  with  little  financial 
help  from  others.  After  conducting  a  private  school  for  a  few  months,  at 
Elmira.  N.  Y.,  he  was  chosen  as  instructor  in  Albany  Academy,  and  in 
1883,  one  year  after  graduation,  became  instructor  in  English  literature  at 
Yale,  remaining  there  six  years.  In  1889  ill  health  induced  Mr.  Whitney 
to  visit  Colorado  Springs,  where  he  resided  until  his  death,  February  25T 
1893.  At  Yale  he  was  known  as  a  tireless  worker  and  was  greatly  loved 
by  faculty  and  students.  During  his  student  life  Mr.  Whitney  served  a 
year  as  editor  of  the  Yale  Literary  Magazine;  and  published  in  connection 
with  his  classmate,  Mr.  Durand,  a  small  volume  of  poems  entitled  "Elm 
Leaves."  His  most  important  publication  while  connected  with  Yale  was 
a  monograph  on  one  of  Spencer's  allegories,  which  appeared  in  the 
"Transactions  of  the  American  Philosophical  Association."  During  this 
period  he  also  contributed  poems  to  the  public  press,  among  them  his 
beautiful  chant  royal  "The  Glory  of  the  Year,"  published  in  the  Century. 
During  Mr.  Whitney's  residence  in  Colorado  he  published  a  small  illustrated 
volume  entitled  "Pictures  and  Poems  of  the  Pike's  Peak  Region ;"  also 
"  Myths  and  Legends  of  Manitou." 

WOOD,  STANLEY,  journalist,  a  native  of  Peru,  Ohio,  and  the  son  of  a 
clergyman.  He  was  educated  at  Oberlin  College  and  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  Oberlin  Review.  On  graduating  he  went  to  New  York 
and  joined  the  city  staff  of  the  Tribune.  After  a  year's  hard  work  as 
"  space  man  "  he  left  the  Tribune  and  went  on  the  World,  under  Ballard 
Smith,  then  city  editor.  Here  Mr.  Wood  attracted  attention  at  once,  and 
was  assigned  to  a  class  of  work  where  his  quaint  literary  style  served  him 
to  good  purpose,  and  in  a  short  time  gained  public  favor.  From  1879  to 
1882  he  was  city  editor  of  the  Colorado  Springs  Gazette:  from  1882  to  1889, 

239 


WITH  COLORADO  POETS. 

chief  of  the  literary  bureau  of  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande  Railroad ;  and 
from  1889  to  1894,  editor  of  the  Great  Divide.  Mr.  Wood  is  the  author  of 
"Over  the  Range,"  a  book  of  travel  through  New  Mexico,  Arizona, 
Nevada,  California  and  Oregon — of  which  there  have  been  sold  100,000 
copies;  also  author  of  "A  Royal  Hand  "  and  "The  Stormy  Petrel,"  plays, 
the  latter  written  especially  for  the  late  Annie  Pixley,  and  played  by  her. 
Comic  operas  written  by  him  are  as  follows:  "Priscilla,"  "Red  Riding 
Hood,"  "Brittle  Silver,"  and  "Barbara."  He  has  been  a  frequent  con 
tributor  to  Harper**  Magazine,  the  Century  and  Kt.  Nicholas. 

WOODY,  CORYDON  ALSTON,  is  a  native  of  southern  Indiana  and  a  grad 
uate  of  Central  Indiana  Normal  College,  at  Danville.  He  pursued  graduate 
work  in  Garfleld  University,  Kansas,  in  preperation  for  the  ministry, 
but,  on  leaving  college,  became  engaged  in  teaching,  and  is  now  instructor 
in  mathematics  and  English  literature  in  the  Colorado  State  Agricultural 
College,  at  Fort  Collins.  Mr.  Woody  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  educa 
tional  works,  among  which  are  "  Outlines  of  U.  S.  History,"  "  High  School 
Orations,"  " Encyclopaedia  of  Queer  Sayings  and  Curious  Questions;" 
also  a  volume  of  poems  soon  to  be  published  under  the  title  of  "  Afflatus 
Buds." 


FINIS. 


240 


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